


bildungsroman in grief and technicolor

by suzzzan



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Human, Angst, Attempt at Humor, BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), Falling In Love, High School, Human Aziraphale (Good Omens), Human Crowley (Good Omens), Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Some Humor, Suicide
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-18
Updated: 2019-09-29
Packaged: 2020-09-06 13:01:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 21,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20291878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suzzzan/pseuds/suzzzan
Summary: "Agnes had always wanted to go out with a bang."Six months of high school, as opposed to six thousand years of existence, but it's just as trialing. Aziraphale is the proud kid with no sense of style who had to switch schools halfway through senior year. Crowley is dealing with an alcoholic father and the suicide of his favorite teacher. Somehow, they complete each other.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A tribute to the best and worst times of our lives.
> 
> The school system is American through and through, because that's what I grew up with, and I didn't want to do hours of research only to have the setting turn out disingenuous. However, our heroes are both at their roots so very English, so some vocabulary is inconsistent. The good thing is you don't have to read it at all if it bothers you.
> 
> Trigger warning: for referenced suicide and alcohol abuse.

Crowley stared at the rain-darkened pavement. The storm grew quickly. Dips in the parking lot turned into lakes. Dirty, oily lakes. It was dark and dreary and cold and the first day of school back from winter break. And only three in the afternoon.

Crowley was miserable.

He was often miserable, but he was especially miserable today. He shoved his sunglasses on, never mind that he couldn’t see through them because of the tint and the dark day and that they immediately grew blurry from the rain. Crowley shoved his hands into his pockets and sighed. The rain grew heavier, lashing.

A black umbrella slid over his head, blocking the downpour and the grey sky.

“You could have just taken a bath,” an incredibly posh voice said.

Crowley looked to his right. An angel was standing there. Well, he wasn’t really an angel—angels didn’t exist—but he certainly looked like one. A shock of whitish blonde hair that Crowley suspected was dyed. Ill-fitting khakis and a white button-down, swallowed by a tan raincoat. The angel stood up straight, back like a board, posture so impeccable he looked otherworldly. That was it, Crowley thought, that was what made him seem like an angel. He was satisfied to note, though, that even with that puffed-out chest and those squared shoulders, the angel was still not as tall as Crowley, who slouched constantly.

“I suppose you could be trying to save water, though, which I must applaud you for, considering the state of the planet now,” the angel continued. “I’ve heard the effects of global warming will become irreversible within eighteen months, so every little bit we take upon ourselves counts. But I’m not sure you have the best idea, though it is a valiant one. Acid rain is still a reality.”

Crowley’s mouth fell open. He struggled to convey his incredulity, eventually coming up with, “So, you saw me standing out here, and your first impression was that I must be taking a bath?”

“Mother taught me to always rule out the most outlandish possibility first,” the angel said.

“Where’d you hear that bit about the eighteen months then?”

“Oh, word of mouth.”

“You should always verify things for yourself. Didn’t your mother teach you that? Telling people things that aren’t true, that’s how rumors get spread.”

The angel made a haughty sound. “I could very easily take this umbrella away.”

“I don’t think I’d mind much. I’m soaked anyway.”

“Why are you?” the angel said suddenly. “Soaked, that is.”

Crowley grumbled something.

“Sorry, didn’t catch that.”

“I’d rather not talk about it.”

“Suit yourself.”

They stood there. A minute passed, maybe two. Crowley took advantage of his shades and studied the angel out of the side of his eye. He really wanted the angel to shrug off his raincoat, reveal the shape of his torso. It looked promising already, not overly muscular or flabby. Crowley caught himself imagining the way the angel’s shoulders would strain against the fabric of his shirt, stretch it tight across milky skin. Abruptly, he faced the parking lot, clearing his throat.

“I wouldn’t mind walking you home, or to the nearest bus station,” the angel offered. “There’s no reason you should be getting even wetter in this weather if you can avoid it. You’ll catch a cold, for sure.”

“My favorite teacher died,” Crowley blurted.

“Oh,” the angel said. “I’m sorry… I’m so sorry. I… well, I’ve only just moved here. Today was my first day, and I don’t know any of the teachers—”

“Her name was Agnes Nutter.”

“Yes, I remember the principal making an announcement. I’m so sorry.”

“S’okay.”

“I doubt it is for you,” said the angel. “You poor boy.” And he managed to make it sound not patronizing at all, which surprised Crowley. The angel took a step closer and laid a warm hand on Crowley’s arm.

“It really is—” Crowley choked. Probably on his own spit. “Okay. Everyone’s saying it was a suicide, but I know—I _ know_—or maybe it’s just wishful thinking.”

“You believe she would never do something like that?” the angel said. Crowley nodded reluctantly. “My mother always says that people will surprise you, but she also says to go with your gut. You were obviously very close to her. Ms. Nutter, that is.”

Crowley nodded again, then sniffled. How was the angel reducing him to this—mere nods and sniffs?

“I know I’m bothering you, but I simply can’t let you stand in the rain in such weather,” the angel said.

“I have a car,” Crowley said. He nodded (again) in the direction of his Bentley, parked at the far end of the lot. He always parked her as far away from other cars as possible, to avoid denting her. The Bentley was his pride and joy. He’d repaired most of her internal components himself, took care of her whenever another old part got too old. The car was from 1926, and thanks to Crowley, she still drove like new (or at least like an old woman who’d recently quit her dull secretary job and started doing only what made her happy). Looking at her made Crowley a tad less miserable.

“Sorry, about this,” he said to the angel. Sniffed. “S’probably weird for you. You don’t know me, and I’m just dumping all this shit on you—”

“Aziraphale.” The angel looked at him brightly, expectantly.

“Crowley,” Crowley said, feeling like he’d just braked too hard and was now slightly smoking.

“Now we know each other. You have quite a peculiar name, my dear.”

“It’s my last name. I don’t like Anthony. Never call me Anthony.”

“Alright. Crowley.”

“Yours is pretty peculiar, too, Aziraphale. If I may say so myself.” Very angelic, he dared not say. He supposed it was no coincidence that he’d thought Aziraphale looked like an angel.

“Mother family has always liked peculiar names,” Aziraphale said. “Mind if I walked you to your car?”

Crowley suppressed the urge to giggle. He really was an emotional wreck right now. “How chivalrous,” he deadpanned. There, that was better.

They walked over to the Bentley, skirting miniature lakes along the way. Crowley unlocked the door and said, “Well, thanks. You just gonna walk?”

“Oh, yes,” said Aziraphale. “Very short walk home for me.”

Crowley shrugged and got in alone. As he was driving out of the lot, he waved to Aziraphale on the sidewalk. The angel, clutching his umbrella tightly, waved back. Crowley wanted to smile. The rain grew even fiercer. Crowley switched his windshield wipers to the highest speed, regretting not insisting for Aziraphale to get in his car. Perhaps that would be weird; they had just met, after all. As he drove away, he watched the angel in his rearview mirror until he faded from sight. Crowley found himself thinking that Aziraphale would look far better under a white umbrella.

***

Crowley had first taken one of Ms. Nutter’s classes as a sophomore. It was a world geography class, and on lecture days, she bounced constantly on-off, on-off her desk as she taught. On some days, they did projects in small groups, and she went around the room and listened to the students working together. Really listened. Facilitated conversation. She was so vibrant, animated, just a tad bit, well, nuts. You couldn’t sit in her classroom and not be sucked in. Into the stories, the places they went around the world, the voyages they followed, explorers who went by boat, plane, horseback, foot. Into the history of every country. It was like you were there.

After sophomore year, Crowley made sure to get into as many of Agnes Nutter’s classes as possible. He managed two his junior year: Western Civilization, and Government. First and last period. He felt so blissful that year. Walked on a cloud. No one could touch him.

He’d started getting stares as he walked down the hall. Popular girls would invite him to parties. Popular boys and jocks would nod ‘what’s up’ to him in the hall. Crowley didn’t talk to anyone, declined all the invitations. He’d only had one friend last year, and that was Anathema Device, Ms. Nutter’s niece. Or they had at least spent a long enough time together to qualify as friends. Both of them chose to spend their lunch periods in Ms. Nutter’s room. There, they helped plan for the annual World War I forum; that made Ms. Nutter proclaim them the co-presidents and only two members of a history club she made up on the spot, to “put on your college applications next year, dears.” And they were sucked in to the school play, which Ms. Nutter directed every year. Crowley reluctantly played a small role, in which he managed to make the audience laugh a lot. Anathema declined and declined being a part of the play, then finally caved and started bossing around everyone on set design. Crowley still teased her about being a control freak.

But sometimes it would just be Ms. Nutter and Crowley, and they would just talk. They talked about everything, from lemon cookies to nuclear warfare. Ms. Nutter was the only person Crowley could talk to about his dad.

“What do you want to do, Mr. Crowley?” was where the conversation would inevitably turn. It was the same question every adult asked a child: What do you want to be when you grow up? Only, Ms. Nutter asked it like a friend. She had been genuinely concerned for Crowley, kept on urging him to overturn his don’t-give-a-fuck attitude about the world. “I want the best for you, but you have to want it too,” she’d say. “You’re such a smart young man, but you’ve got to start thinking about the future. At least get an idea of where you’re going. And you _ are _ going to college, Mr. Crowley.”

He liked it when she called him Mr. Crowley. She called every student Ms. or Mr. followed by their last name, except for Anathema, whom she treated like a daughter and called Ana. Crowley tried to do what Ms. Nutter wanted for him, tried to figure out what he liked, but he kept coming back to history. He loved history, but he was rubbish at it, really, completely hopeless at remembering facts. He only loved it because it was the only kind of class Ms. Nutter taught.

“What about cartoons?” he said once. “I like to doodle. I could be one of those cartoonists for the Sunday paper.”

“When have you ever doodled?” she said, like she was a police officer.

“In class, all the time.”

“In my class? I should hope not!”

“Not in your class,” he mumbled.

“Well, do you draw at home?”

“No.”

“Do you ever draw unless you’re bored?”

“Sometimes,” he said. Then, “Not really.”

“It’s not a test,” she said then, softly. “You’re not required to know what you want to do for the rest of your life by your senior year. Not at all. I just want you to start thinking, Mr. Crowley. Use that big brain of yours and think.”

So he did. He listened to her. He always did.

“I’ve been thinking about what I want,” he’d said to her, during another lunch period.

“Oh, and what is it?”

“I want my dad to join a group. One of those rehab groups you see adverts for in the paper all the time. And I want him to let me help him.” He paused, licked all the backs of his teeth. “And I don’t want to be like him when I’m older. That’s what I want.”

She looked at him, then, really looked at him. Into him, it almost seemed, and she did it fiercely. Ms. Nutter did a lot of things fiercely, with passion, with enthusiasm, et cetera. “You don’t have to worry about that,” she’d said. “You won’t be like him. And your father? He has to help himself first. He has to want it, the rehab, calling the advert in the paper. You know you can’t force what you want onto him. Would you care for a macaroon?”

Crowley took one and rolled it between his fingers. “He’s getting worse. I hide all the bottles, but he finds them. It used to be, he would just fall asleep once he ran out. Now, he curses at me. He knows I’m the one doing it. He asks why, if I’m trying to kill him, says I know he can’t live without it.” He looked into Ms. Nutter’s eyes and handed her all his fears, and she didn’t stagger. “Says he’ll kill me.”

“Oh, Crowley, I don’t believe he will. But if he does lay a finger on you, you know what to do.”

“Yeah—” Crowley choked. Chewed his cheek. “Yeah, I know.”

“Don’t protect him from anyone. If he harms you, he’s not the one who needs protecting. I don’t believe it will come to that, though. Remember, he has to help himself first—I know. Oh, you’re so brave, boy.”

She knew. She knew all the things Crowley wanted to hear, like she’d plucked them out of his very brain. She knew.

Agnes Nutter had been bipolar. Or still was bipolar. Things like that didn’t just go away, Crowley heard. They haunted you for all your life, resurfacing once you thought they went away for good. That was what killed her, people said. The disease in her brain. And it was a disease, they said. Her crazy brain.

But the Ms. Nutter Crowley knew wasn’t sick. The Agnes Nutter he talked to during lunch every day, the Agnes who comforted him, who gave him hugs and warm hands on the shoulder and cookies of all kind, would never just _leave_. Sure, she had her off days, but everyone had those. Days where they didn’t feel like trying, or talking, or getting up. Crowley refused to believe she would abandon it all, abandon him, blow herself up on Christmas Day for fuck’s sake—and yet, she had.

“I am always here for you, Mr. Crowley,” she would say.

“Whenever you need to talk—”

He wanted to scream at her.

“I will always be here for you.”

Well, where the fuck was she now?

***

He ran into Aziraphale again the day before Agnes’s funeral. He’d been looking for Anathema because he had this conviction that the school play and the war forum were both going to happen this year, on time, and a success, in honor of her aunt, but there was no chance of that happening if he couldn’t find Anathema, goddammit. He ended up right where he was the first day back from break, staring out at a near-empty parking lot. Only this time it wasn’t raining.

He didn’t see the angel until Aziraphale was right in front of him.

“Hello,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley blinked that horrible stinging feeling out of his eyes. “You’re here late.”

“I could say the same for you.”

“S’just leaving.”

“So was I.” Aziraphale gave him a soft smile, and Crowley’s knees felt weak. “But then I realized I’d forgotten a book. So here I am, back again!” He made a sort of ‘ta-da’ motion with his hands. Crowley watched as they trailed through the air and back to Aziraphale’s sides. They were large hands, with beautiful rectangular oval nails. Crowley wondered what it would be like to hold them.

“I was, er, just looking for a partner,” he stammered. “A project. Er, a project partner. But seems like she’s left already.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. How unfortunate.”

Aziraphale shifted his backpack. Crowley eyed the taut straps. That thing looked like it was weighing Aziraphale down quite a bit. Crowley never bothered with a backpack, just piled up everything in his locker.

“Look, go get your book and I’ll give you a ride home, alright?” The words tumbled out very fast, and Crowley didn’t even realize he’d said them until he saw Aziraphale’s eyes widen. Blue. His eyes were blue.

“I… I couldn’t possibly—”

“Don’t be difficult,” Crowley drawled.

“I, really, this is—really too much to ask—”

“Aziraphale. You’re not asking. I am. You said before it was a short walk to your house, didn’t you? It won’t be too out of my way anyhow.”

Aziraphale opened his mouth to protest again, then wisely decided to shut it. “Thank you, dear,” he said, then trotted toward the front doors.

Crowley pretended not to notice the endearment. The ‘dear’ had slipped out quite naturally, and it didn’t mean anything, thank you very much. It was probably just part of Aziraphale’s vocabulary, considering he had just moved here from elsewhere. Perhaps in elsewhere, people walked around calling everyone ‘dear’.

By the time Aziraphale came back, Crowley was still pretending not to notice the ‘dear’.

“I’m all set,” the angel said brightly. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”

Crowley decided not to mention that he would probably still be moping at the front doors if Aziraphale had not shown up, angel that he was.

“Remember my car?” he said proudly as they walked over to the Bentley. “You probably didn’t get a good look last time because of the rain. She’s a Bentley, 1926. Raised her from the dead all by myself.”

“I didn’t know you were a necromancer,” Aziraphale said.

“There are lots of things you don’t know about me,” Crowley said. “Get in.”

Aziraphale gave him directions, and they started driving in the opposite direction Crowley usually took. Not that he minded. He didn’t much like to be home.

“So, new kid in school. Senior year. How’re you finding that?” Crowley said.

“Oh, er, can it be anything but difficult?”

“You tell me.”

“It’s not as frightening as I pictured it to be. Everyone’s polite here, but they keep to themselves.” Aziraphale paused, took in breath like he had a big announcement. “Except for you. You’re nice, Crowley.”

“Psh. I’m not nice.”

“You are,” Azriaphale insisted. “You offered to drive me home. Me, a very nearly complete stranger. Which makes you very nice… and kind.” Crowley tried not to think too much about that. “Forgive me for asking, but are you alright?”

‘Fine,’ was on the tip of his tongue, but Crowley swallowed it. The truth was, Crowley was not very alright, and lying to Aziraphale might make him even less alright. “Why do you ask?”

“It’s just, I heard the funeral’s tomorrow. Ms. Nutter’s.”

“Yeah. The whole school’s invited.”

“Yes, I heard that too. And how are you holding up?”

“I’m holding,” Crowley said, then didn’t say anything else. The silence stretched on. He floundered for a conversation topic. They couldn’t go back to discussing Ms. Nutter, and he was afraid Aziraphale might try to do that and Crowley would cry, and then what would Aziraphale think of him? He thought of something to say in a hurry.

“Why’d you move?”

“Oh…”

“You don’t have to answer that,” Crowley said quickly, “if you don’t like.”

“No, nonsense. It’s not a secret.” Aziraphale flashed him another smile. It caught him by surprise, and Crowley had to yank the steering wheel hard to the right to avoid clipping a mailbox. “Mother had to move for her job.”

“What does she do?”

“She’s a doctor. The old hospital she was at closed.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“It’s fine, really. Can’t exactly complain.”

“Nah, you can always complain,” Crowley said. “Bit of a blow to those college applications, though, isn’t it? Switching schools halfway through the year.”

“Yes. Yes it really was. I think I’ll be taking a gap year, actually.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah…”

“No, I didn’t mean it in a bad way. I meant it in a way that was like ‘oh, interesting’.” Crowley colored. He couldn’t believe half the things that were coming out of his mouth.

A beat. Then, Aziraphale laughed. Crowley’s hands slipped again. He felt the corner of his mouth twitch, and it horrified him. He really couldn’t understand the effect this new kid, this angel, was having on him. Aziraphale was wearing trousers that were far too big on him and an ugly rust-colored sweater that looked quite scratchy on the inside as well. There was nothing remotely attractive about him. His ballooning clothes hid his figure, and his face was rather average. He didn’t even have dimples. Just a light in his eyes and a lethal smile.

“Oh, bloody hell,” he shouted, coming back to his senses. “I’ve missed your turn, haven’t I? I forgot all about what we’re here for.”

“No, you haven’t,” said Aziraphale, looking quite sheepish. “It’s up there. The next right.”

Crowley scowled at him. “That’s not a _short walk_. It’s been nearly a ten-minute drive!”

“Ah, well… would you be irritated if I said shortness is relative?”

“I’m already irritated!” Crowley said, spinning the wheel with a newfound ferociousness at the turn. “In fact, I’m sort of angry. Tomorrow, I’m picking you up. Don’t argue. Which one is your house?”

Aziraphale directed him to a respectable two-story and got out with a plethora of ‘thank-yous’ and ‘sorries’. Then he realized he forgot his backpack. Crowley hefted it to him through the window. It really was abysmally heavy.

“Tomorrow, Aziraphale,” he called at the angel’s retreating figure. “Tomorrow morning! Seven-thirty! If I catch you trying to walk again, I won’t hesitate to run you over.”

The angel smiled.

***

Anathema called him that night. Crowley picked up with a grumpy, “What.”

“Don’t give me that. You don’t know what I’m going through right now,” Anathema said in her typical Anathema way. But there was a new raw, vulnerable edge to her voice, which Crowley decided he shouldn’t push. It was an awful time for both of them, but especially Anathema.

“Were you at school today?” Crowley said.

“What do you think? Agnes’s funeral is tomorrow, and I—I’ve—and—and—” She started crying. Crowley sat up straighter, pressed his phone so hard into the shell of his ear it hurt.

“Anathema…”

The breathy sounds of crying went on, occasionally broken by a loud, wet sniff.

“I have about six boxes of Kleenex in my bathroom,” Crowley said. “If you want, I can deliver them to you. I’d be over in a jiffy.”

The mewing sobs stopped instantly. “Shut up,” Anathema said.

Yes, that was Crowley’s only friend. And believe him, their friendship was all Ms. Nutter’s fault and not by his choice at all. Other people used other choice words to describe Anathema, like ‘bitch’ or ‘witch’. Or ‘the witch bitch’.

“Do you want to give a speech at the funeral tomorrow?”

“What?”

“You heard me.” Anathema sniffed, long and hard. God, she had a lot of snot.

“Are you snorting crack over there?” Crowley said. “Why didn’t you invite me?”

“I want you to give a speech. Agnes would have wanted it, too.”

Crowley wished she would have told him before she went and blew herself up.

“What does your mother think?”

“It doesn’t matter what she thinks. This funeral is more about preserving her own public image. For her, anyway. I mean, that’s not to say she didn’t care about Agnes—they were sisters after all—but she always looked down on her. It’s up to us to tell everyone who Agnes really was.”

“Anathema, this is really last minute.”

By the tone of her voice, she knew she’d gotten him. “Isn’t everything we do?”

“I don’t know if I’ll be able to.”

“Make it short as you like. But make it good. Or else I’ll put a curse on you and your sperm.”

Crowley huffed into the microphone. “Quit it with the sorcery stuff. You’re not twelve anymore.”

“What’s that? I don’t know if you have time to patronize me. Aren’t you busy?”

“What?”

“Don’t you have a speech to write? For your favorite teacher?”

Crowley rolled his eyes.

“Agnes would want you to do it,” she reminded him, as if he needed reminding.

“I know. You know I know.”

“Alright, bye.”

“Goodnight, Anathema.”

He spent a few minutes running his hands through his hair after they hung up. He could already feel his stomach turning over and over. This speech had better turn out fucking good. He dug out an old notebook and flipped to the last page, fished a pen from under his bed, and started writing.

It was five in the morning before he finished.

***

Aziraphale was the first person Crowley saw when he arrived at the funeral, late, his hair a mess. Not that he was looking for Aziraphale. No, of course not. He was just the first person Crowley noticed: the angel was standing alone, back from the crowd, watching the funeral with a respectful and thoughtful expression.

Mrs. Device, Anathema’s mother, was standing behind a podium before the casket, saying, “Agnes had always wanted to go out with a bang.”

And Crowley immediately turned to leave. Everything was already sullied. There would be no telling the world who Agnes Nutter really was because Mrs. Device was ruining it all. There was no point in staying—

It was then that Aziraphale saw him, and smiled.

Crowley couldn’t have moved if he tried. He just stood, drank in the angel’s smile. His stomach sloshed around—and he regretted drinking that coffee this morning to make up for his lack of sleep. He was all jittery, and Aziraphale wasn’t helping.

He gave the angel a little wave, and that smile grew even wider.

Aziraphale was wearing an over-large suit jacket and slacks that looked like elephant trunks. Crowley pondered if the only clothes he owned were hand-me-downs or if he just had no sense of… anything.

Before he knew it, Anathema was beckoning at him. His legs seemed to move of their own accord, transporting him toward the casket, then up the three steps to the small stage where the podium stood. Crowley was sweating, breathing shallow and fast. He inhaled, held the breath as he counted to five slowly in his head, then let all the air in his lungs out in a _whoosh_. It didn’t help, except to make him even more lightheaded.

His sunglasses were slipping down his nose, and he had to keep pushing them up. He took the speech out of his pocket, uncrumpled it under the podium, and set it on the stand. Pushed his sunglasses back up. He cleared his throat. Another push of the sunglasses. The words swam before his eyes. He hardly recognized them. Push. Did he even write this? Push.

Crowley cleared his throat again, looked out into the crowd. Saw only a cemetery, sprawling for miles and miles. Looking was a mistake. Push. Where the devil was Aziraphale? If he could focus on Aziraphale, he would be fine. Push. This was ridiculous. He had seen the angel less than thirty seconds ago, saw where he was standing. Push.

Someone cleared their throat. They were getting impatient. But Crowley wasn’t ready!

Push.

“Hi, er. Hello,” he heard himself saying. “My name is Anthony J. Crowley.”

Stupid! Why did he feel the need to say his middle initial, of all things? Now he sounded pretentious, he was such a prick, he was stupid.

“I’m a senior at Eden County High School, and I’m in Ms. Nutter’s World History class. Was. Er…”

His sunglasses were slipping again. Push.

“I’m sorry.” The wind blew, grating against his ears. He watched as his hands fluttered more than the sheet of paper he was supposed to be reading from. He cleared his throat. Right. Reading. That wasn’t difficult. He would begin to read, then read some more, then finish reading. Right. Here we go.

“Ms. Agnes Nutter was my favorite teach—” His voice cracked. He mouthed a few more words like a dying fish, then searched the sea of faces frantically for Anathema. Push. His speech, it was so stupid. He could hear himself giving the rest of it in his head, hear the disappointment in his voice as he read what was supposed to be his great tribute to Ms. Nutter. It sounded like a child had written it. Not even a child. A fetus.

“I’m sorry.” He couldn’t find Anathema, but he hoped she could tell he was speaking to her. “I’m so sorry. I just—I can’t—”

His voice cracked again. He pushed his sunglasses up his nose, and they slid back down immediately. And then, he just scurried off the stage, half-ran in the direction of his Bentley, tearing his speech into tiny shreds as he went.

***

A month later, Anathema still hadn’t forgiven him. She sent him emails (really professional emails that made Crowley wish he could have kidney stones instead of reading them because at least kidney stones would be less painful) to communicate about the history club’s activities and the play. The former was going well. As for the latter, they were both working separately to convince administration that there should still _be _a play, and they’d both been reminded on several occasions that the play was the last thing on their minds right now. Crowley was convinced that they’d have better luck if Anathema would actually speak to him in person about it. Right now, they didn’t even have a sponsor!

Another thing Anathema did was get a carrier pigeon. Well, someone to act as her carrier pigeon. His name was Newt, short for something probably even more ridiculous, and the first time he walked up to Crowley’s lunch table, cleared his throat, and said, “Er, Anathema would like me to inform you that if you’re not eating your pickle, she would be charmed to take it off your hands,” it put Crowley in hysterics.

“I didn’t know Anathema had any other friends,” he’d said once he’d calmed down. “Where’d she find you?”

Newt blushed and looked away. “Er, Anathema says we aren’t friends. Oh, and that she’s not friends with you anymore, either.”

Crowley shrugged and stuck the pickle into his mouth. “Pity. I’m all she has.”

“So you are going to eat that pickle,” Newt had said, edging away and looking very eager to be away from him.

“Why doesn’t she just come over and ask me herself?”

“Because you’re not friends. And… er, and she’s not talking to you until she decides you’re friends again.”

Crowley gave the pickle a lick from length to length, then held it up to Newt. “She can have it.”

In the days after the funeral, Crowley had been resigned to eat in the cafeteria for the first time since his sophomore year. He didn’t exactly eat, however. On rare occasions he’d get a pack of cheese and onion crisps to indulge on. Mostly, he sat at a table and glared, scared everyone away who had thought they were going to sit at his table, and drank an apple juice. Once, Hastur and Ligur had tried to make fun of his debacle at the funeral, of which there was certainly a video recording being spread all over social media. “Hi, I’m Anthony J. Crowley, and my favorite teacher died,” they’d mock-wept, falling all over Crowley’s table. “And now I just—I can’t—I’m—I’m—oh, I’m thinking about killing myself, too!”

But Crowley had given them an impervious stare, and they had stopped. Luckily. And no one had said anything further about the… event. Luckily. Because Crowley didn’t think he could stand it if they’d come back. He’d probably have run into the restroom crying. Or socked them in the face. Sure, Crowley had a reputation for being dark and impenetrable and mysterious, but he wasn’t unbreakable. And the way he’d bungled his speech had made that very obvious. He was very lucky that no one else came searching and prodding for his breaking points. Perhaps they were simply afraid of him—he’d spent years building up that reputation, after all—but Crowley liked to think that people were being kind, leaving him alone when they had reason to do otherwise. Yes, he believed so. In kindness, in everybody. Even high schoolers.

And so, Crowley was left to sit alone at lunch through most of January. People would sometimes pass by and give him a sheepish look, which he would return impassively from behind his sunglasses. And then, one rainy day in late January, Aziraphale sat down and stayed.

“Hello. Is this seat saved?” the angel had said, even as he took the seat.

Crowley almost called him that—angel. He always gave Crowley the feeling that he was descending suddenly from Heaven. A poof of light, and he was there.

“Nah,” he said, too slowly.

Aziraphale had already unwrapped his sandwich and taken a large bite. “Didn’t think so,” he said, once he’d swallowed, dabbing the crumbs from the corners of his mouth with a napkin.

“Oi, what’s that supposed to mean?”

“You seem like the sit-in-the-lunchroom-alone type, if you know what I mean.”

Crowley slurped his apple juice. He’d been driving Aziraphale to and from school every day, and they’d gotten comfortable with each other’s banter from all the time they’d spent in the Bentley together. Seven minutes and sixteen seconds, twice a day. That was how long Crowley had to spend with Aziraphale every day. Once they got to school, they never saw each other past the front doors. Often, Crowley wondered where the angel went off to. They didn’t share any classes, and so what if Crowley made it a point to look for him at lunch? Those fourteen minutes and thirty-two seconds were easily the best part of Crowley’s day, and he’d be damned if he wanted to call Aziraphale a proper friend.

“How come I never see you in here?” he said.

Aziraphale took a sip of milk from the carton he’d also brought from home, even though the lunchroom had the same cartons. “I eat outside, normally. But today it looked like it was about to rain, so I decided to come in.”

“Oh.” Crowley raised his eyebrows. “Didn’t know there were places to eat outside. Do you picnic or something? Bring a blanket? That’d explain why your bookbag’s always overstuffed.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, my dear,” Aziraphale laughed. And there it was again, the ‘dear,’ what Crowley practically lived for, except this time Aziraphale had appended a ‘my’ in front of it. It made Crowley feel even more valuable. “Lovely picnic tables by the football field.”

“Oh? We should go and eat out there sometime. Have a picnic. It’d be posh.” Oh God, it was happening again. Words falling out of his mouth. Honestly, what was he saying?

Aziraphale snickered into his sandwich. “Still a bit cold for that.”

Crowley noticed the angel’s hands now, red and chafed, and frowned. Aziraphale’s beautiful hands, cold-bitten, how had he missed that?

“Why didn’t you come inside before now?”

“I… I suppose—” Aziraphale put down his sandwich. He glanced around everywhere except for Crowley. “—I always told myself I needed to study. And I needed the peace and quiet. But I suppose I was just afraid to come inside.”

Crowley felt his heart melt a little.

“I can’t explain why. It’s just, I’ve never really felt out of place before. And I wasn’t sure if you…”

He stopped abruptly. Crowley realized that his cue to say something had long passed. “Aziraphale, that’s entirely reasonable.”

“Is it?”

“Of _course_. What are you, asking for my permission to feel afraid of walking into a crowded room full of hundreds of people with some of the coldest hearts on this Earth, and whose most likely actions are to either act like you don’t exist or bully you? No, that’s perfectly normal. In fact, I’d even be scared of you if you weren’t at least a little nervous.”

“Oh,” said Aziraphale. “I’ve just never done this before.”

“Move to a new school? Or eat lunch across a dashing young man?”

Aziraphale gave him a look that said ‘please stop’. He returned to his sandwich, and Crowley let him finish it in peace.

“Hundreds of people with the coldest hearts, hm?” Aziraphale mused. “Well, I know of one exception.”

Then, he simply got up and threw his empty milk carton and sandwich wrapper away, leaving Crowley stunned at the table. Crowley couldn’t decide if he was more shocked by the way Aziraphale had complimented him or the way he’d said it, as if it were just a fact he read from a textbook. He concluded that he’d much preferred if Aziraphale had just winked at him instead, because that would have caused his vitals to spike lower.

That day, Crowley learned that he and the angel were not in any of the same classes because Aziraphale took all the advanced classes. He learned, too, that Aziraphale planned to become a doctor.

“Is it because of your mother?” he’d asked, and Aziraphale shook his head.

“She’s never cared much about what I do,” he said. “She always says as long as I’m happy, she’s doing her job right.”

“God, your mother sounds like a saint.”

Aziraphale laughed. “There’s this internship program at her hospital that I’m applying for. To get some experience during the year I’ll have off. I asked her to drop in a good word for me, and she downright refused! Can you believe that? She says I’ll have to make my own way in life if I want anything out of it.”

“Words of wisdom,” Crowley said, nodding at Aziraphale. “Heed them.”

“Hm. What do you know about wisdom anyway?” Aziraphale grinned, a glint of his inner bastard in his eye. “In this world, it’s only about who you know, anyway. See, everyone knows I know you now, so if I were a betting man, I’d say I’ll be invited to a party soon.”

“Can’t wait to see what your senior quote’s gonna be,” Crowley grumbled.

“I think, I already have it picked out,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley rolled his eyes. Of course. “Would you go?” he asked.

“To what?”

“If you were invited to a party, would you go?”

“Oh, that would depend if there was alcohol involved.”

Crowley could swear his eyeballs were leaping out of his head. He was glad then that he’d finished his apple juice already because he would have choked so hard that resuscitation would have been impossible.

“You?” he’d sputtered. Angel? “Alcohol?”

Aziraphale blinked. “Yes, all in moderation, of course. And it’s even better if you don’t pay for it.”

Crowley groaned something unintelligible.

“Do you go to parties, my dear?”

“Oh… ah, no.”

“Shame. I thought we could go to the next one together.” Aziraphale waggled his eyebrows, and his forehead moved in the opposite direction. Crowley stared; it was mesmerizing.

“I could,” he said quickly, then cleared his throat, not wanting to sound too desperate. “I mean, we could, if you want. I’d drive, of course, so you can have all the fun you want.” And oh, the prospect of seeing Aziraphale with his cheeks booze-red and his eyes aglow sounded very fun indeed.

“You don’t drink?”

“No.”

Aziraphale sensed he’d touched on something that should not be treaded on in a loud lunchroom. Crowley tried to banish the image from his mind of his dad passed out on the sofa, telly blaring, a dropped bottle in shards and liquor spread out over the floor. Not now, not in the middle of a school day. He’d see plenty of that when he got home. He focused on Aziraphale. Tried.

“I’m sorry, Crowley.”

“No, don’t be.”

The bell rang.

A week later, Crowley told Aziraphale while driving him home, “My dad’s an alcoholic. S’why I don’t drink.”

He couldn’t explain what it was about that moment that had inspired him to open up to Aziraphale. Maybe it was the rare spot of sunlight among the grey January clouds. Maybe it was that Aziraphale was wearing a cardigan. Those goddamn cardigans of his always made Crowley feel soft in the knees.

“Oh,” said the angel, “I thought it was something like that, but I didn’t want to pry.”

“You can pry now.”

He glanced over, and Aziraphale was licking his lips, contemplative, as if he didn’t want to step on any toes. “Are you alright? I mean, are you safe?”

Crowley shrugged. “Dad’s a sad drunk, not a violent one. I wouldn’t call him high-functioning. Maybe just a still-functioning alcoholic. He has a job at the hardware store.”

More like he was in danger of losing his job at the hardware store. His employer, Mr. Smith, was always threatening to fire him for his ‘bad attitude’ and ‘slackery’, but the store didn’t get much business and Mr. Smith couldn’t afford to hire someone else who’d work for as low of a salary as Crowley’s dad’s. Most days, Dad would go to work hungover, nearly throw hands with Mr. Smith, and come home and drink it off. A vicious cycle.

Crowley tried to sweet talk Mr. Smith (as much as you could sweet talk a sixty-year-old man when you were Crowley) whenever he came by every day to drop off his dad’s dinner. Dad didn’t get home until eight or nine every night because he had to close the store, so Crowley would stick some chicken in the pan and boil some peas when he got home from school and deliver it to the store, then try to settle the festering argument of the day with Mr. Smith. He always took his sunglasses off before talking to Mr. Smith. His efforts didn’t do his dad many favors, but Smith did mention once or twice that he’d be willing to hire Crowley full time.

It wasn’t the most pleasant thing in the world, but it was a reliable part of his day, and Crowley liked reliable. He liked patterns, and a routine, so he didn’t mind much.

“Does it bother you?” Aziraphale was asking. “Being around people who talk about drinking? Or are drinking?”

“Nah,” Crowley answered truthfully. “Well, I don’t know much about the second part. Never been around other people who’re drinking, but I’d still like to go to a party with you. Mostly to see what you act like at them. Be nice to unwind a bit, I think.”

As Aziraphale predicted, Stephanie Banner passed by their table at lunch the next day, popped her gum, and said, “My mate Carrie’s having a party at her place this weekend. You two care to come?”

“That would be lovely,” Aziraphale said, beaming at her. “What’s the occasion?”

Stephanie eyed him as if she couldn’t decide if he was being for real or not. “Valentine’s?”

“S’not for another two weeks,” Crowley pointed out.

“The end of the month, then,” she said, after a while.

“What a delightful thing to celebrate,” Aziraphale said.

“O-kay.” Stephanie popped her gum.

“I agree,” Crowley interjected. “End of months are an important transitory period not enough people pay attention to. Glad we can be there for it.” He gave Stephanie a little sneer, which she seemed to appreciate.

“I’ll just put you in the group chat,” she said.

“You have my number already, don’t you?” Crowley said quickly. She did, unless she’d deleted it; they’d worked on a project together last year. In Ms. Nutter’s class, he realized suddenly. “You add me, then I’ll add him.”

“Works for me,” she said, then spent a minute scrolling through her phone. Crowley received a notification that he’d been added to a group named ‘Hemsworth’s titties’. He gave Stephanie a thumbs up, and she strutted away with a “later.”

Crowley turned to Aziraphale, and they both burst out laughing.

“All hail February,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley repeated after him. They snickered for a bit longer.

“Well, what’s your number?” Crowley said with too much enthusiasm.

“My dear, I’ve been waiting for you to ask me that for a month,” Aziraphale laughed even harder. “Really, who acts as a chauffeur without getting their client’s number?”

Crowley felt his face grow hot. So, he hadn’t been so smooth after all. He stammered as Aziraphale took his phone and entered his contact information. He couldn’t even bring himself to point out that he was _not _Aziraphale’s chauffeur, thank you very much. But he supposed Aziraphale would just tell him he was in denial.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for blood
> 
> and eating food with the fingers, if that grosses you out.

The party was at a mansion. Carrie’s folks had just left for the weekend, and somehow Carrie and her friends already set up strobe lights and speakers blasting something with too much bass all around the house. Crowley wondered how much of his soul he’d have to sell to secure that much efficiency in the workforce. He decided he’d sell all of it and maybe a kidney if it meant his dad would never be at risk of losing his job again and Mr. Smith would give him a raise.

But on the other hand—mother of Satan, what was Aziraphale wearing? Crowley had nearly yelped in surprise when Aziraphale got into his car and he saw the old jeans, ragged boots, and oversized sweater that might have once been white but was now the color of dust-under-the-bed and had an oily black stain on one sleeve, but he held his tongue until he could think of a nice way to phrase his concern.

“Aziraphale, your clothes…” There, that wasn’t a half bad way of bringing it up. At least he hadn’t said anything mean. And sure, Crowley always got used to whatever outfit Aziraphale dug out of some 1950’s closet, but he couldn’t guarantee other people wouldn’t say anything mean. Especially drunk teenagers at a party.

Aziraphale looked down at the offending sweater and adjusted the sleeves. “What about them?”

“They’re a little…” Crowley sighed. “Alright, damn it, you’re going to have my head for this, but they’re a little ugly.”

“I know that, my dear,” the angel said in the least offended way in the world.

“What?” Crowley exclaimed. “You know?”

“They’re my grandfather’s clothes. He passed away last year. I wear them because I wanted to remember him in some way.”

“Oh.” Crowley slowed the car down. “Well. Now I feel like an absolute arse.”

“Don’t. My mother says the same thing. I quite like them, though. They’re comfortable.”

“I… er, I like those cardigans you wear sometimes,” Crowley offered.

Aziraphale beamed then, and it was all worth it.

Once they got inside the mansion, Aziraphale went straight for the blue raspberry vodka. Crowley hung back, sipping a bottle of Pepsi, and watched as Aziraphale found some buffalo chicken sliders and started popping them like candy. He ate so gracefully. A slider following a shot. Shot. Slider. Repeat. Crowley was mesmerized.

“My dear, why do you hardly ever eat?” he said after his third slider-shot combo, his voice not even slurred.

“Just a picky eater. Don’t eat food unless I know where it’s been.” Crowley eyed Aziraphale’s hand as he poured himself another shot. “Don’t you think… maybe you’ve had enough?”

“I know myself, Crowley.” Aziraphale sipped this one cautiously, and Crowley relaxed a little. “But even at school, you don’t eat most days. Just those cheese and onion crisps sometimes.”

“No one knows where those school lunches come from,” Crowley recited his practiced answer. “And the hairs that those hairnets don’t catch… I’ve seen enough of them in my food for a lifetime.”

Aziraphale hummed. “So, you’ll only eat pre-packaged food? And I assume food that you’ve cooked yourself?”

“S’about right.”

Still, Aziraphale frowned. “Then why not eat crisps every day? Not that I’m encouraging you to because they’re very unhealthy for you, but all the same, if they’re the only things you will eat…”

“C’mon. Let’s go play truth or dare.” There was a group just forming, and the alcohol had just begun to have enough effect on Aziraphale that he allowed Crowley to tug him along without protest.

The group turned out to be indecisive as fuck and after fifteen minutes of bargaining and drunken shouting decided they were going to play spin the bottle instead. Carrie got to kiss a junior boy with a lot of muscles who was wearing a lifeguard T-shirt. Then, Two girls sitting beside each other made out to raucous applause. And then, it was Stephanie’s turn. She gave the bottle a twirl, and it sprang half a circle on the carpet and pointed directly at Crowley.

“Take your sunglasses off,” she said. Giggled. Puckered. She was very, very bad at being flirtatious half-drunk.

“Absolutely not.”

He pecked her on the lips.

When he sat back, he made a point to sneak a glance at Aziraphale. The angel’s face was a blank slate, and Crowley’s heart sunk.

And then, a guy Stephanie had clearly been making eyes at the entire night spun the bottle, which landed on Carrie, who giggled and puckered up. The whole room seemed to draw in a collective breath.

Stephanie went batshit crazy.

She screamed something like a battle cry and lunged for the bottle. “No, no, no, no!” someone shrieked in a very high pitch. Maybe it had been Stephanie, too. Carrie stood, stumbled. Pointed at Stephanie, slurred, “You jusss’ a slut who cannn’t—”

Stephanie hurled the bottle with the sound of a terrier seeking revenge for being stepped on, and it shattered against Carrie’s arm.

_ Oh fuck. _ Everyone in the room was on their feet, yelling, scrambling, colliding with each other.

“Someone call the police! Someone _ call—the—police!"_ the guy Carrie had been about to kiss was shouting, which did not help with the panic.

Crowley glanced at Aziraphale, who was on his feet, swaying a little bit, fingers twitching. He wanted to be a doctor, Crowley remembered. He was smart. He was confident. He would know what to do.

“Aziraphale?” he said.

The angel didn’t seem to hear him. _ Oh fuck_, Crowley thought for the second time. He waved a hand in front of Aziraphale’s face. The angel didn’t blink. Just stared. Like he saw something entirely else before him. _ Oh fuck. _

Crowley strode into the madness, shrugging his jacket off. Carrie was sprawled at the foot of the sofa, shrieking the same piercing note over and over like a broken opera singer. Her arm was bleeding liberally. Some had already made its way on the carpet.

“Everyone get back!” he said, crouching down beside Carrie. He wadded up his jacket and pressed it to her arm. Harder. Was that hard enough? He knew he had to apply pressure, but he wasn’t sure how much. He pressed harder, just in case. Carrie’s scream went up in pitch.

“Hey, hey, look at me. Okay?” He slapped her cheek gently. She reached up and took his sunglasses off. It was really a bad time to be bothered by it, but Crowley was bothered. He considered snatching back his glasses and leaving her. “Stop screaming,” he said instead. She stopped but started breathing rapidly instead. What was it they called that? Hyperventilating? “Look, we just have to apply pressure to the wound so you don’t lose so much blood. Can you help me? Hold it like that.”

“B-b-b-but th-th-the g-g-glass.” She was sobbing. Oh dear God, this was disgusting.

“They’ll get it out for you once to get to the hospital, alright? Right now, we’re going to sit here and just breathe. Just breathe, alright? You’re alright. Just breathe.”

She breathed. Crowley breathed, too, a sigh of relief.

He turned his head back. Most of the people who had been playing the game were still there, watching like deer in headlights. One girl was recording with her phone. Crowley resisted the urge to yell at her and caught Aziraphale’s gaze instead. The angel seemed the least drunk among the crowd.

“Aziraphale, call an ambulance.”

The angel took out his mobile. Good. That vacant stare was completely gone from his eyes. Crowley breathed another sigh of relief. Carrie exhaled along with him.

“You!” Crowley pointed at the boy in the lifeguard shirt. “Find a fucking first-aid kit.”

He dashed off. The room was quiet, except for Carrie’s still-heavy breathing. Then, Aziraphale’s calm voice washing over them: “Yes, there’s been an accident. Someone’s cut her arm on some glass. The wound’s about four inches wide, and it may have nicked the radial artery.” He gave the address and hung up.

Then, he came forward and crouched beside Crowley.

“I’m so—”

“You’re a goddamn angel, Aziraphale,” Crowley said, moving over so Aziraphale could examine the cut. He was sweating buckets, he realized. He grabbed his sunglasses off the floor where Carrie had dropped them and slid them on.

The lifeguard bloke came back with the first-aid kit. Crowley fumbled it open. His gaze scattered. There was only bandaids, bandaids, and—

“Look for a packet of Celox,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley found it quickly enough, handed it over. “What is it?” he asked as Aziraphale ripped the package open and sprinkled its contents into the gash on Carrie’s arm.

“Clotting powder. Slows the bleeding. Get me some butterfly bandages. Do you know what those are?”

“Yeah. The little tape things.”

Crowley sifted through the box and eventually found the bandages.

“Could you… hold the sides of her cut together?”

“You want me… to hold…” Crowley’s head spun. It was certainly not the blood that was making him queasy. Certainly not the gushing, gaping, pumping redness that certainly did not make Crowley sick to the stomach when he imagined touching it with his bare fingers.

“No, it’s alright.” Aziraphale had the nerve to let out a breathy laugh, then pressed the gash closed with one hand and tore the package open with his teeth. Moving with very precise motions, he sealed Carrie’s wound with the tape, patted her hand. “You alright, my dear?”

Crowley felt his face burst into flames. Aziraphale really—he didn’t just—Carrie wasn’t a _ dear _ to anyone. She was an entitled, spoiled, self-centered brat, and she did _ not _ deserve Aziraphale’s endearments.

A small voice in the back of Crowley’s head wondered if Crowley deserved them either.

Sirens sounded in the distance. They started at a whine, barely noticeable, then blared to a full blast. The room broke out in commotion again. Crowley managed to hold onto one thought: he did not want to be here when the paramedics arrived.

“Let’s go,” he hissed to Aziraphale, and the angel followed him into the blessedly cool night air. Crowley noticed that the rest of the house was suspiciously liquor-free. They cleaned up fast. Again, he thought about other ways that efficiency could be put to better use.

“And that is why I don’t go to parties,” Crowley tried to joke after he’d started up the Bentley and they were headed back to Aziraphale’s house.

No sound from Aziraphale. When Crowley looked over, the angel was staring out his window. There was blood on his hands, Carrie’s blood, and his sweater. Even his moon-white hair.

“D’you want to talk about it?” Crowley offered.

Aziraphale turned to him with an apologetic expression, as if he’d only just noticed Crowley had been speaking to him. “What’s that?” His eyes were full of sorrow and uncertainty.

“Never mind.”

“I’m sorry—”

“You shouldn’t be. It’s alright, Aziraphale.”

The angel hummed and turned back to the window. Crowley focused on driving. His hands were shaking.

***

The following Monday at lunch, Aziraphale showed up with two sandwiches. Crowley barely had time to blink in surprise before Aziraphale shoved one of them at him, and said, “The turkey, lettuce and bread came from that artisan supermarket, there's mayo on there from a single-use packet, and I wore gloves when assembling it.”

And before Crowley could protest, he added, “Consider it as a recompense for the petrol you waste on me every day.”

“S’not a waste,” Crowley barely whispered.

He copied Aziraphale’s movements. Unwrapped the sandwich halfway. Pinched it around the middle. Took a bite.

“Oh my fucking God,” Crowley couldn’t help but say, then tried to clamp a hand over his mouth, which proved very difficult with the sandwich he was holding. The words had just… slipped out of his mouth, out of his control, past the sandwich he was chewing with vigor. How had they done that?

“This is ssso fuckin’ good, Aziraphale.” There. There they went again. He hadn’t even given them permission.

The angel smiled. “I’m glad you’re enjoying it.”

Crowley scarfed his sandwich down in the time it took Aziraphale to eat half. Then, he sucked his carton of apple juice dry. His stomach gurgled. God, he was still so hungry.

“I feel like I owe you an explanation, my dear.”

Crowley waved a hand. “Nah, not if you don’t want to talk about it. I understand that, if you want to keep it to yourself. Whatever it was that made you freeze.”

Aziraphale frowned and set down his sandwich. “I want to talk about it with you.”

“Alright.” Crowley gave him a nod to continue.

“I am really sorry, Crowley. I should have never put you in that position.” Aziraphale took a shallow breath. “I can’t imagine what you think of me now. I let you down, what you expected of me—”

“No one had any expectations of you, Aziraphale. You don’t have to apologize.”

“But I did,” Aziraphale snapped. And there, right now, that look in his eyes was what drew Crowley to him like a moth to a flame. His brain had been dancing around a word to describe what he saw in Aziraphale since they’d first met, and now he knew it. Aziraphale was proud. Proud in the purest sense of the word. Proud in a way that made him almost untouchable. Even now, even though he was being so hard on himself for freezing up at that party, he was still miles above Crowley. He was his own harshest critic, but he critiqued himself in a way that wasn’t self-deprecating. Aziraphale would always be in competition with himself. His own expectations.

“All I could think about in that moment was the ways I’d screw up if I tried to help,” Aziraphale continued. “I could see her bleeding out because I wasn’t fast enough. See everyone blaming me for her death. I knew all the things you were supposed to do in a situation like that. I could see them in my head. But I also had such doubt. That I wouldn’t be able to do them. I don’t know what came over me.”

“You’re human,” Crowley said. That was something Ms. Nutter always said to him, and it always made him feel better. “You’re human, and you had a moment. You’d also just had four shots of blue-raspberry vodka.”

“Three and a half,” corrected Aziraphale miserably.

“That’s enough to cloud anyone’s judgement. Even someone who can hold their alcohol as well as you.”

“The key is,” Aziraphale said, returning to his sandwich, “to drink water or eat something in between each drink. Also, I’m on the chubbier side, so my BAC rises more slowly.”

“I’d just chalk it up to better genetics. Another blessing from Mother Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale snorted. “Please—_please _ don’t call her that.”

“What am I supposed to call her, then?”

“Her name is Philomena.”

“Do you call her Phil? For short?”

“Do we call you Tony?”

“Hey!” Crowley shuddered. Tony was, unbelievably, even worse than Anthony.

Aziraphale gave him a cool, satisfied look. Crowley returned the stare, flustered. He was so gone for this angel.

“S-so.” He cleared his throat. “Does it mean anything? Philomena.”

“It’s Greek for ‘lover of strength’.”

“Of course it is.”

***

The next day at lunch, there were three surprises awaiting Crowley. First, Aziraphale brought him another sandwich. They never spoke about Crowley’s inability to afford lunch; it was like a sort of mutual understanding. Aziraphale had caught on, and he’d also caught on that it was a topic Crowley didn’t like to talk about. And so, he’d fixed the problem in the best way possible. Crowley couldn’t imagine what it would be like to have a brain like Aziraphale’s.

They were laughing about something that had happened in one of Crowley’s classes when Anathema swept up to their table and said to Crowley, “You do realize what you did was really, really awful? Also that it physically hurt me to watch you?”

It only took Crowley a second to figure out she was talking about his speech at the funeral. And another second to feel a staggering wave of guilt wash over him.

“Yeah,” he choked out. “I’m really sorry, Anathema.”

“As you should be. You shouldn’t ever let down a friend like that again.”

A ray of hopeful sunshine shone behind the frames of Crowley’s glasses. “So, we’re friends?”

“If we’re ever going to get anything done around here.” Anathema huffed. “You’re on a probationary period, though. If you pull anything like that again, I’m never talking to you again for the rest of your life.”

“Understood. I haven’t been able to get a meeting with admin—”

“I’ve scheduled one with the vice principal today.”

“Really? Fuck, Anathema. You’re brilliant.”

“I told him we have a petition for the play, and we had one hundred fifty signatures.”

“And… do we?” Crowley had a really bad feeling.

“Not quite.” Anathema pulled a piece of paper out of her handbag. Crowley saw at most three signatures on it. “But the meeting’s scheduled already. So, if we say the right things, he might be persuaded to hear us out. I have a week by week agenda for the production as well as a list of estimated finances that we can present to him.”

She laid the petition down for him to sign. He groaned. “This isn’t going to work, Anathema.”

“Don’t be such a Debbie Downer, Crowley,” Aziraphale said. “Mother says you should always tell the truth, but in the best possible light. But don’t make any promises, because then you can be held liable and sued. I think.”

“Thank you, Aziraphale,” Crowley deadpanned.

And then, the third surprise appeared at his shoulder in the form of the lifeguard guy from the party. The junior who’d kissed Carrie and now—Crowley saw as he turned around—was holding her hand and standing far too in her personal space.

“Dude, just wanted to say. You’re so cool,” Lifeguard Bloke said. “The way you took off your jacket. Like—ah—ah!” He mimed the movements. Crowley stared, open-mouthed.

“What?”

“The video Breanna took and posted on Twitter,” Carrie said. “Didn’t you see it? It has, like, a thousand retweets.”

“Don’t have a Twitter,” Crowley managed to squeak out.

A black-haired girl from a neighboring table leaned over into their conversation. “Are you talking about that video where that bloke just rushes in and stops that girl’s arm from bleeding? And she takes off his sunglasses? That was so _ hot_.”

Crowley choked on his own breath. Beside him, Aziraphale was doing a very bad job at holding in his laughter, and Anathema was practically crying.

“Yeah,” Carrie said. “Sunglasses is right here.” She pointed at Crowley. “And I’m the girl in the video.”

“Oh my God!” the black-haired girl shrieked. She hit the person sitting beside her on the arm and began talking animatedly. Their whole table turned to listen, and the black-haired girl pointed in Crowley’s direction. A boy passing their table was caught up in the conversation, then saw Crowley and Carrie, and ran to tell his friends. A ripple passed over the lunchroom like a stadium wave.

“For the love of Satan…” Crowley groaned. And then, he had a stroke of genius. He tapped the black-haired girl on the arm and pushed Anathema’s petition towards her. “Hey, do me a favor and sign this? And pass it on when you’re done.”

“Oh my God, of course!” And the petition went around.

Anathema gripped Crowley’s hard so hard his fingers went numb. He patted her on the shoulder. “You’re welcome,” he said.

“Hey,” said Carrie. Crowley looked up to realize she was speaking to Aziraphale. “The paramedics said whoever did the tape on my arm probably saved my life. So, thanks.”

Aziraphale beamed at her. “It wasn’t a problem, my dear.”

And Crowley was too happy for him to feel jealous.

***

With some convincing from Anathema’s carrier pigeon, Mr. Pulsifer, who was Newt’s dad and also taught maths, agreed to be the sponsor of the school play. From the get go, Mr. Pulsifer disagreed with Anathema and Crowley on many things, including which play they would perform. Mr. Pulsifer wanted _ Hamlet_, but both Anathema and Crowley insisted that would be too depressing.

“This is supposed to be a tribute to Ms. Nutter,” Anathema said for the umpteenth time. “We can’t put on a production where more than half the cast dies and the climactic moment is a contemplation of suicide! We absolutely can’t.”

“Nonsense. _Hamlet’s_ a fine play,” was Pulsifer’s reply, every time. “And don’t you think that if Agnes were alive, she’d appreciate how connected to her the play was?”

Crowley groaned. He really wanted to curse. “You’re missing the point, Mr. Pulsifer. We’re trying to commemorate Ms. Nutter. Not her death.”

“Can’t you just tell him he’s being daft?” Anathema fussed at Newt later. “He’s just the sponsor, anyway. He’s not supposed to get final say in what happens in the production. This is a student-run club—even when Agnes directed. We’re supposed to be the ones calling the shots. Not him!”

“Sorry,” Newt said. “He’s a maths professor. He doesn’t understand things like empathy and common sense.”

“Well, at least you know you couldn’t have gotten a worse sponsor,” Aziraphale remarked. The four of them sometimes ate lunch together now, whenever Anathema felt like she and Newt should join them, which irritated Crowley just a bit because he didn’t have Aziraphale all to himself anymore. He was looking forward to the weather getting nice so he and the angel could have that picnic by the football fields.

“It could be worse,” Crowley said. “We could have Shadwell.”

Mr. Shadwell was the new history teacher with bad breath and a penchant for staring at girls. All four of them shuddered. Nothing further needed to be said. They felt immensely fortunate, particularly Crowley and Anathema.

***

In other news, the capitalist quagmire that was Valentine’s Day was approaching. There was going to be a school dance, too, and Crowley couldn’t help but debate whether buying Aziraphale chocolates and asking him to the dance would be too forward. Then, Crowley reminded himself that Aziraphale called everyone ‘my dear’, and he didn’t even bat an eyelash when Crowley had kissed that girl during that game at the party. How could Crowley even have considered it? Chocolates, really! An hour later, his mind would wander and picture Aziraphale’s face when he opened the chocolates, his cheeks flushed and his eyes alight. ‘For me?’ he’d say. Then, Crowley would mentally slap himself upside the head again. He didn’t have money for chocolates anyway; he’d have to shoplift them.

And so, he didn’t say anything until the day before the dance. He was at the lunch table, alone with Aziraphale, when the angel asked, “Crowley, are you going to that Valentine’s dance?”

Crowley inhaled his apple juice instead of swallowing, and spent the next six minutes wheezing and hacking it out of his lungs.

“The dance, Crowley,” Aziraphale reminded him when it was apparent he wasn’t going to asphyxiate.

“What about it?” Crowley coughed.

“Are you going?” Aziraphale tutted, and he was giving him that _ look _ again.

“I… haven’t decided.”

“It’s tomorrow, dear.”

“Hm,” Crowley mused.

“I thought we could go together.”

Crowley started coughing again.

“As friends.”

“Oh. Right. Yeah.”

“Do you dance?”

“Not… not much.” Crowley cleared his throat weakly. “Do you?”

“Ah, regretfully I’m not very good.”

“Good,” Crowley heard himself saying. “Then neither of us have anything to be afraid of. I’ll pick you up at—what time does it start?”

Aziraphale pointed to a poster advert for the dance on a wall barely ten feet away. “Seven.”

“I’ll pick you up at seven.”

“But.” Aziraphale blinked owlishly. “It starts at seven.”

“Aziraphale.” Crowley allowed himself to grin, now that the excitement was done. He’d thought for a moment Aziraphale had been hinting at… no, never mind. He’d said they’d go as friends. Nothing else. There was no use to think about it. “No one shows up to dances on time.”

***

Even half an hour late, they were the first ones there. Crowley didn’t mind the awkwardness; he was still starstruck from meeting Aziraphale’s mother, Philomena. She was a beautiful woman, and he was sure Aziraphale wouldn’t mind him saying so.

“So you’re the young man…” she’d said once she’d opened the door of her respectable two-story. Crowley just stared at her. Those words could mean a number of different things, there were a number of ways she could have intended that sentence to end, but he was too awestruck by her to even guess. “Crowley.”

At the sound of his name, he jumped to attention. “Yes, pardon. That’s me, Doctor—”

“Just call me Philomena. No need for those stuffy titles,” she’d said. Philomena had a dangerous face, round and sharp at the same time, and one that never betrayed what she was feeling. To Crowley, she looked perpetually bemused. And stunningly beautiful. She resembled Aziraphale so much, mostly in the way she held herself up, and at the same time not at all.

“Are you antagonizing him, Mother?” Aziraphale appeared behind her, in the middle of tying a red bowtie. Crowley’s attention was fully caught by him, now. For the first time, the angel wasn’t fully dressed in his late grandfather’s clothes. The white button-up, which Crowley recognized from their first meeting in the rain, was old and loose and puffed at the sleeves. But Aziraphale had tucked in his shirt nicely around a pair of slim black jeans, which made Crowley’s heart skip a beat. Oh dear, his legs were rather long—at least longer than Crowley had originally estimated—and rather muscular, weren’t they? And that red bowtie… was spiffy and so Aziraphale. He looked like something that had leapt out of a romantic comedy play.

“Me? Nonsense, I don’t antagonize,” Philomena said. Afraid she was going to ask him something else, Crowley stared rather intently at the pearl dangling from her right ear. She was looking right back at him, at everything that had just been written out on his face, his full-body flush at the sight of her son just now. He couldn’t hide anything from her, he realized. They had a moment of understanding, then: he knew that she knew how he felt. And she knew all that, too.

“Where are your manners, Mother?” Aziraphale teased lightly. “Oh, Crowley, do come in.”

Crowley went in. The house was modest and homey, and looking at the warm colors, he suddenly had the urge to take a nap. It would be one of those good naps, where you slept undisturbed and woke up with a sleepy taste in your mouth and your muscles all heavy and did a stretch all the way to your toes.

“My dear,” Aziraphale’s mother said to him, “I haven’t forgotten my manners. I thought you’d be ready to leave by now.”

Aziraphale huffed through his nose. Watching him, Crowley felt a warm tingle spread through his arms and legs. He really was so endearing.

“Would you care for some cider, Crowley?” Philomena said.

“It’s nonalcoholic,” Aziraphale added, undoing his bowtie and starting again.

“What else would it be? You’re eighteen.” Philomena gave Aziraphale that look, and it reminded Crowley of the half-amused, half-irritated look Aziraphale gave him so often.

“I’m fine,” Crowley said.

Philomena took two bottles of pear cider from the fridge and slid one across the kitchen island at him anyway. Crowley suddenly realized he was thirsty. “Really, have a drink. It’s going to be a while.” She winked at him, rolled her eyes at her son. Then, to Aziraphale, she said, “I was wondering what happened to that lovely zinfandel Doctor Patel gave us.”

Aziraphale turned rosy pink. “You don’t even like red, Mother.”

“Mm.” Philomena pursed her lips.

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows. He undid his bowtie again. Crowley sat back and opened the cider. He didn’t mind staying here the whole night just watching Aziraphale struggle with his bowtie.

“I always tell my patients just because you have some prescription medicine left over in your closet from the last time you got ill, doesn’t mean you should take it the next time you get ill.”

“Really, what does wine have to do with medicine?”

“Hm. Well, how about this then? Studies have shown that alcohol impairs brain development, particularly in teenagers.”

“Really, Mother, I’m practically an adult.”

“But a whole bottle of zinfandel—really, Aziraphale?”

She didn’t seem angry. In fact, they were speaking as if this was the type of conversation they had on a regular basis. Like Aziraphale’s mother was asking him why he’d cut instead of peeled an orange. Philomena turned to Crowley and said, “He gets it from his father. That man could knock back four shots of whiskey and drive a hundred miles without batting an eye.”

“Oh…” Crowley said. He pretended not to notice she’d said ‘could’ with a faraway look in her eye. He and Aziraphale had never talked about his father or Crowley’s mother. Not that he wouldn’t have talked about her if Aziraphale’d asked, but he couldn’t assume the angel felt the same way at all.

“Has Aziraphale told you about that internship at my hospital that he’s applying for, Crowley?”

Crowley silently thanked the Heavens that Philomena was such a well-versed conversationalist. “He said you were… dissuading him from it?”

Aziraphale laughed. “Don’t try to deny it, Mother.”

“I’m not doing any dissuading,” Philomena protested. “I’m only not helping him. I’m not being _ un _helpful. There’s a difference.”

“Not much,” Aziraphale said. He tugged his bowtie into form once more, regarded his reflection on his phone, which was propped up against a fruit rack, and seemed satisfied. “Let’s go, Crowley—oh, I nearly forgot. One second.”

He raced upstairs.

“Well, my dear, tell me something you like to do,” Philomena said. Crowley’s mouth went dry instantly. He took a gulp of his cider.

“I like my car,” he offered.

“Oh, yes. Aziraphale mentioned that.” She smiled warmly. “Does she have a name?”

“Er… not really. I tried a few, but none of them fit her. She’s just the Bentley, now. S’unique enough. Not many people driving Bentleys around these days.”

“I should think not. I must admit, I hardly know anything about cars. Rubbish at anything that’s not sawing someone apart.”

Crowley laughed despite himself.

“No, really. It sounds grotesque, but it’s what I do.”

“What do you do, exactly?” Crowley blurted. “I mean, you know, what’s your specialty?”

“Osteopathy. Bones.”

“Ah. Sawing, I see.”

Aziraphale’s mother tossed her empty cider bottle at the trash can, and it bounced off the rim and landed with a soft thud. She sighed dramatically. “Like I said. Absolute rubbish. Especially, I find… at relationships.”

She gave him her knowing look again. Crowley felt his hands grow cold and his heart stutter into a gallop. Was she implying what he thought she was implying? Was that why she’d invited him inside in the first place? To give him the Talk? His blood pounded, equally terrified and hopeful.

“Oh… _ no_, I mean. It’s not like that… really, it’s not. Nothing like that.”

She smiled. “Just don’t overthink it, Crowley.”

_ What the bloody hell’s that supposed to mean? _ he wanted to say. Instead, he just made a sort of squeak and fell silent. At that moment, the angel came back down, a small package in hand.

_ Thank God _, Crowley almost said. Luckily, he managed to keep silent.

“Terribly sorry to make you wait, Crowley. I hope Mother didn’t terrorize you too much,” the angel said.

“Just a little,” Crowley forced out.

Philomena was still smiling, and the worst part was, there was nothing menacing about it. Crowley still thought she was beautiful. “Have fun, you two. Oh, and Aziraphale, what time will you be home?”

“Dance ends at ten,” Aziraphale said.

“You’ll be home before me, then. Do turn on the porch light when you get back,” Philomena said. “Lovely meeting you, Crowley. Drive that Bentley kindly, you hear?”

“You too,” he said, as sincerely as he spoke to Ms. Nutter. “And I will. Don’t have to worry.”

“Oh, I never worry.”

They went out through the front door, Crowley after Aziraphale.

“She’s going to a mixer,” Aziraphale told him, rolling his eyes. “Something for the hospital. But that’s not until nine. She got herself all dolled up early for you, I reckon.”

Crowley wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry.

“How is that internship application going?” he asked once they were seated in the car. He recalled Aziraphale’s frustration with himself for freezing up at Carrie’s accident. He hoped the angel didn’t still hold that over himself, cast doubt on his skills that bled over into that application.

“It’s… going. I’m working on it. A little.”

Crowley raised an eyebrow.

“Maybe I’ve put it on a pause.”

“Aziraphale—”

“You really don’t have to encourage me, Crowley. I’m not upset over what happened anymore. I’m not.”

“Listen to me, Aziraphale.” The angel shut his mouth. “You’re brilliant, alright? You’re the most brilliant person I know. You think of things no one else could think of. Even just the things you say. They’re brilliant. And you’re so intelligent. You would be amazing at that internship, and you know it.”

“Crowley…” the angel took a breath. A long pause. “Thank you, my dear.”

Crowley put the car in reverse.

“I got you chocolates,” the angel said quietly.

Crowley slammed his foot on the brake. They hadn’t been going very fast, and it was only a little jolt, but in his mind, Crowley could see Aziraphale’s mother watching the Bentley’s headlights from the window and shaking her head at him.

“Really?” Crowley said shakily.

“Well. They’re dark chocolate fudge chews. I couldn’t find anything else that was individually packaged and in a box like this.” Crowley turned to see Aziraphale holding out the package, a white chocolates box with gold lettering on the top. His eyes stung. “Try one. I have no idea if they’re good or not.”

“Aziraphale…” His sinuses were seizing up, a lump the size of the Rock of Gibraltar rising in his throat. It was barely a whisper, “You didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to,” the angel said. “To thank you, for how kind you’ve been to me.”

The dance was soon swarming with pink and red dresses and too-shiny dress shoes. Nervous hands, jittery feet. Bad dancing. It didn’t take too long for Aziraphale to join in. And not long after that for Crowley to follow suit. It was fun to jump around and flail his limbs like no one was watching. And indeed, no one was, except Aziraphale, and he was just as bad of a dancer as Crowley. His sunglasses made everything almost indistinguishable in the near darkness. A splash of red here and there and Aziraphale’s cloudy shirt was about all he could see. At one point, they held hands and boogied around for one song, and Crowley was certain he was going to go into cardiac arrest. Or at the very least, he expected he would look down, and there would be a hole in his chest where his heart had been before it leapt out to find Aziraphale.

At another point, he lost sight of Aziraphale in the crowd of mostly-gyrating couples, and once he became fully aware of his surroundings, he fled for the refreshments table.

They found each other again at the punch bowl and tried shouting at each other over the music, but neither could hear the other and so they eventually gave up and watched the dance with disgust. Aziraphale had found Crowley an unopened bottle of water, which he was drinking with gratitude when Aziraphale suddenly grabbed his arm. A slow song had just come on, and Crowley was working up the nerve to ask Aziraphale if he wanted to return to the dance floor.

“Oh my God!” He pointed, and Crowley looked, squinted. “It’s Newt and Anathema!”

The water exploded from Crowley’s mouth in a fine mist.

“What—the fuck?” He ripped off his sunglasses so he could see better. There they were, clear as day: Newton Pulsifer and Anathema Device dancing hand in hand, chest to bosom, their foreheads bent toward each other, noses dangerously close. “Oh, God. I can’t look at this.” Crowley turned away. “Tell me when it’s over.”

“My dear, I don’t think it’ll end anytime soon.”

“What do you mean by that? No, Aziraphale! Please don’t say it.”

Aziraphale laughed. “Crowley, I think they’re _ dating_.”

“No!” Crowley hissed. “They can’t! Why would he want to date her? Why would she want to date him?”

Aziraphale made the sort of sound you would make while petting a cute kitten. “They’re adorable. Crowley, just look at them for a moment.”

Crowley looked and immediately turned away again, gagging. They were the farthest thing from a cute kitten. The absolute farthest from ‘adorable’. Their dancing was awkward. They were sweaty and panting on each other, Crowley could see that even in the near darkness. They were so vehemently unsuited for each other, Crowley thought. Never in a million years would he have guessed they would one day be _ dating. _

“Let’s go, Aziraphale. I’ve seen enough.”

The angel took a picture of them on his phone before Crowley could pull him away. “Never show me that picture,” Crowley hissed into his ear. “It’ll give me nightmares.”

“Well, we’ve still got about an hour left,” Aziraphale laughed. “What do you want to do?”

Crowley thought, putting his glasses back on. It was a Friday night. He had a five in his pocket, and the ice box at home was nearly empty of chicken and peas. He couldn’t remember how much was left; he’d have to ration it out once he got home. Plan for the next few days. There was one can of beans in the pantry. His dad would be getting paid Monday.

“Let’s get ice cream,” he said.

“Oh… are you sure, Crowley?”

“Positive.”

“I thought—I was thinking we’d drive to your favorite bluff or something. Like they do in the movies.”

“We can do that and get ice cream,” Crowley said.

He drove them to the nearest gas station, where he bought a half pint of cherry garcia, fighting off Aziraphale’s efforts to pay, and they went up to his favorite bluff, where you could see all of Eden in lights. He’d forgotten spoons, and they laughed about that and ate with their fingers instead, sucking ice cream from them until they were raisined.

He dropped Aziraphale off at his house at exactly ten, then waited for the porch light to come on. A couple of dark minutes later, Aziraphale came back out, met Crowley’s eyes, and laughed. He trotted over to the car window. Crowley rolled it down.

“Something wrong?” He’d really wanted to call him angel.

“The light’s gone out,” Aziraphale said. “Mother’s going to have quite a fright when she gets home.”

“Hah,” Crowley said. “Really.”

“I may turn off all the lights and behind the garage door. Yell ‘boo’ when she comes in.”

“How old are you, seven?”

“It’s very likely.” Aziraphale giggled. Crowley’s eyes drew to his lips, stretched pink and sticky from ice cream.

“Think about your poor mother, Aziraphale. Don’t do that to her.”

“I’ll take it under consideration. Good night, Crowley.”

“Night, Aziraphale.”

When he got home, his dad was passed out in front of the telly already, an amber bottle teetering on the arm of the sofa. Crowley plucked the bottle up, stoppered it, and placed it behind the telly. Then he went into his room and ate all of the fudge Aziraphale had given him, one by one, and savored the melt on his tongue and against the roof of his mouth. He fell asleep on his back with the taste of sweet milk and chocolate in his mouth, stomach full of sweets. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt so full.

***

He was at the hardware store two weeks later when the end of the world happened. He strolled to the back absently, where he dropped off the tupperware with his dad’s dinner in his workspace, dreading the calculus homework he’d have to do when he got home and didn’t understand and considering calling the angel and asking for help. Wanting to speak to Mr. Smith on his way out, he headed toward the sound of raised voices in aisle three.

It happened too fast. They were arguing again, Dad and Mr. Smith. Crowley rounded the corner in time to hear his dad say, “The fuck’s wrong with you, I’m just trying to do my job.”

Mr. Smith pounded the ladder Dad was standing on. Crowley winced, took off his sunglasses. “Your fucking job is to do what I tell you. And I’ve been telling you for the last forty-five minutes that those new bulbs go over in five. We have a system here—”

“Yeah, well your bloody system don’t make sense. That’s what I’ve been telling you, if you’d fucking listen. I was an engineer, I know all about systems.”

“For the last damn time, _ get down_.”

Dad stayed where he was, shoved another box onto the shelf. Crowley stepped forward.

“You know, I don’t have to deal with half the shit you give me,” Dad shouted, sticking a finger in Mr. Smith’s face.

“Then don’t!”

“Mr. Smith—” Crowley started.

“You’re fired.”

Both of them turned then, just noticing him. Dad’s face turned a bright red. Mr. Smith just looked shocked. There was a ringing sound in the air.

“Anthony… is it five o’clock already?” his dad said. Crowley ignored him.

“Please, Mr. Smith,” he said, approaching the man, palms raised like he was asking for alms. Then, Crowley saw what was at the end of the aisle and stopped in his tracks. Or rather, he saw who.

Aziraphale. Wearing a pained expression. Aziraphale and Philomena, finally shopping for a porch light, like he and Aziraphale had laughed about at school today: “That damn light’s been out for two weeks, and Mother still tries to turn it on every night.”

“I could pick something up for you,” Crowley had said. “My dad works in a hardware store. I’m in the vicinity of porch lights every day.”

“No, thank you. It’s alright. Mother and I are going this afternoon.” The angel rolled his eyes. “Finally.”

They stared at each other now, with the incredulity of car accident witnesses, unable to look away. _ Please go,_ Crowley thought desperately. _ Please don’t say anything. _

Aziraphale opened his mouth, then after a few strained seconds, closed it. Philomena touched his shoulder and turned him away.

“Look, I’m sorry, Crowley,” Mr. Smith said. “But there’s nothing else I can do.”

Tears brimmed hot in Crowley’s eyes. He wanted to say something, he really did. He needed to. For Dad’s sake—and his own, too. But his throat was closed and swollen, and he knew the next sound out of his mouth would be a sob.

To Crowley’s dad, Mr. Smith grunted, “I’ll give you a month’s salary, alright?”

Dad cursed, started to say something that sounded like “I’m sorry.” Crowley returned to the back of the store and got the dinner he’d brought. The tupperware was still warm. He drove his Bentley home as fast as she would go.

He was in his room, huddled in the middle of the floor with his calculus book and the covers from his bed over his head, when Dad came home. He heard him call for him a few times, his footsteps nearing his bedroom door, which Crowley had locked. He knocked. Crowley didn’t get up.

“Goddammit, open the door, Crowley,” he growled. There was another half-hearted knock. “I’m sorry, alright?” A long, lingering silence. “Damn it, you must hate me, Crowley. Really hate me.”

Did he? Crowley wasn’t really sure. At the moment, he didn’t know what to think at all. He remembered, foggily, his dad telling him right after they moved to Eden, “I promise I’m going to do better for us, Anthony. You’re safe here, now. We’re never going to see her again, not unless you want to, and I’m going to do for you what my old man never did for me. I promise. Swear it on my heart. Alright, Anthony?”

Another long silence. Then came the sound of crashing bottles in the kitchen. Loud, like thunderclaps. The sound of Dad smashing his illusion, bathing his hands in blood and alcohol. Splintering glass, shards flying, grazing skin. Fingers, arms, an eyebrow, cheek. The sound of a storm tearing a foundation apart.

Crowley bit down on his knuckles allowed himself to weep.

***

At school, auditions for the play were underway. He and Anathema had finally persuaded Mr. Pulsifer that untrained high schoolers wouldn’t be able to do the intricate emotional responses in _ Hamlet _ justice, and they’d agreed upon doing _ Much Ado About Nothing _instead.

Pulsifer had been able to invite Mr. Liu, a friend of his and a drama teacher from a local private school, to judge the auditions. There was moderate interest in the play, and more students signed up than any of the previous years. Anathema managed to schedule everyone for a fifteen-minute time slot into a single day, and Crowley praised her about it for hours. They guilted both Aziraphale and Newt into auditioning, too.

And then, Anathema said to him, “You should try out for Benedick, Crowley. There’s no one more dickish than you. You’d be perfectly suited.”

“Very funny,” Crowley told her in his most cynical tone.

“I’m being serious. I’m going to try out for Beatrice. We’re the ones who wanted this whole thing to happen in the first place. Why shouldn’t we take the leads?”

She had a point, Crowley thought. Which is how he found himself trying out for the lead role. Mr. Liu seemed very impressed by him when he was finished. Crowley killed it, in his own opinion. Blew the audition straight out of the water.

“I don’t like to brag, usually,” he told Aziraphale. “But I think I landed the part.”

“I’m so very glad for you,” the angel beamed, and for a moment Crowley allowed himself to relax and bask in that smile.

They didn’t talk about it, what happened in the hardware store. Crowley didn’t bring it up, and Aziraphale didn’t ask. He knew that was how they did things; whenever one of them had something on his mind, they wouldn’t talk about it until he was ready. Aziraphale was only respecting his privacy. Crowley knew that.

And yet, a part of him wanted the angel to ask if he was alright, how his dad was doing. He wanted the angel to show him he cared.

Crowley was being greedy and wanton, he knew—he knew that.

And _ yet, _ he still hoped the angel would the first to mention the hardware store, perhaps start talking about his porch light. Then, Crowley would tell him that he and Dad were fine. Or closer to fine than they had been for a long time. Dad was drinking less, applying for jobs. Crowley had applied for a weekend gig at a coffee shop, just in case, and was waiting to hear back about an interview, but they were getting by on unemployment benefits for now. They even talked in the evenings, sometimes.

Then, the cast list came out, posted on Mr. Pulsifer’s door, right on time. They were due to start practice on March 12th, after everyone was given a week to learn their lines. That, too, was right on time, according to Anathema’s agenda. Brilliant Anathema. She’d even gotten cast for Beatrice. Everything was right and proper and in its place. Except this:

Crowley hadn’t gotten the role of Benedick.

Aziraphale had.


	3. Chapter 3

Crowley didn’t know what to think. He couldn’t feel jealous; it was the angel, after all. He couldn’t feel like he’d been robbed; he didn’t have anything in the first place. And so, he felt ashamed. Ashamed he’d even thought he had a chance of playing the lead anyway. He simply stood there in front of Mr. Pulsifer’s door, staring as people jostled around him to get to lunch.

“I’ve been looking all over for you!” came Anathema’s voice from behind him. “Mandy and Jason just dropped out of the World War I forum. They were manning the booth on mustard gas, so we have to get someone to replace them, stat. What are you—oh, they’re out already? I didn’t expect them until at least the end of the day.”

“Yeah,” muttered Crowley. “You got the part.”

Anathema squealed and clamped her hands around his arm, swinging him around. She ran a finger over her name behind her part.  _ Beatrice—Anathema Device, _ she mouthed. “Oh, I’m so happy! This is actually happening, Crowley! It’s actually happening.”

“Yeah. It is.”

“And you? You got the part, too, didn’t…” she trailed off as she read the assignment at the top of the list more closely.

“Don Jon,” Crowley said.

“Oh.” Her eyes fell down. Middle of the page.  _ Don Jon—Anthony Crowley. _ “That’s not bad, either,” she said stiffly. “Sometimes things don’t go as planned, but they turn out alright in the end. I think this will be alright. Don Jon, that’s a pretty big role.”

“Yeah, but look at who got Benedick.” Crowley nodded at the list. “Didn’t know he could act.”

“He must be able to.”

“His mother’s a very good doctor. Osteopathy. Treats bones diseases. Goes to a lot of mixers. Probably makes a lot of money, too.”

Anathema’s eyes widened. Still holding onto his arm, she backed him into a locker. “ _ What  _ are you saying, Anthony Crowley?”

Crowley felt his face turn boiling hot immediately. He couldn’t believe himself. It’d just… slipped out. He shook his head to clear it. “I—I honestly don’t know. I’m sorry, Anathema.”

“It isn’t me you should be apologizing to!” She flung his arm down.

“Well, I haven’t said anything to him.” Crowley felt limp. He slid down the locker and let his bum hit the ground. “I haven’t had time to, and I’m not going to. He’s my best friend—”

“I thought I was your best friend!”

He made a face at her. “I’ve been replaced, haven’t I? Newton Pulsifer, adoring boyfriend?”

“Yes, well. You were saying…?”

“Aziraphale is my best friend,” Crowley enunciated each word. They were true as a tomato was a fruit. “And I’m happy for him, I really am. I just… wanted that part so badly, and it didn’t seem like he did. Want it, I mean. At all. He acted like he didn’t care.”

“But we all know he’s a good actor, now.”

“He’s also the most genuine person in the world.” Anathema had to nod at that. “And I can’t explain it, but I’m sad. It seems like… it almost seems like he always gets everything. And I have nothing. Always. I’m sick of having nothing.” He went to wipe at his eyes, and his hand hit his sunglasses instead. He suddenly realized who he was. Or at least, who he was supposed to be. “Fuck. Forget I said anything.”

Anathema rolled her eyes. “Relax. Your secret’s safe with me.”

Crowley shot to his feet. How could she know? She and Newt were always huddled together these days, not paying him or Aziraphale any attention. How could Anathema have picked up on his feelings for Aziraphale?

“What secret?”

She punched him in the arm, which was really going to be bruised tomorrow. “That on the inside, you’re just a big softie. You always had so much to say back when we talked to Agnes. I was worried you’d gone back into your shell.”

Crowley breathed a sigh of relief.

“Going to lunch?”

“Er… in a bit.” He jerked a thumb towards the restrooms.

“Don’t go cry on the toilet,” Anathema said.

He stuck his tongue out at her, very maturely.

After she’d walked away, he went to his locker and grabbed a sheet of paper. In the restroom, he drew a bouquet, complete with shading, then scribbled ‘Congratulations!’ over the flowers.

“For you,” he told Aziraphale when he sat down at their lunch table, sliding the paper over to him.

“Oh… dear. Thank you.” The angel smiled, but it was without its usual sheen. “You saw.”

“Yeah. You saw?”

“While I was on my way here, yes.” Aziraphale ran a hand through his hair. He looked positively wrecked. Crowley would have believed it if he’d just confessed to murdering someone. His heart gave a sharp twang of guilt, remembering what he’d told Anathema in the hallway. “I am so sorry, Crowley. I never expected to get that part. Would you believe me if I told Mr. Liu I wanted to play Leonato? We can even switch, if you want. You said it was a student-run play. We can do anything you want.”

“No.” Crowley had already made up his mind as soon as he saw the casting list that Aziraphale should keep the part. “Why even invite a drama teacher from another school to do the casting if we aren’t going to listen to him? Besides, you deserve the role, angel.”

His face coloured as he realized what exactly he’d just called Aziraphale. Of course, he’d been thinking it for months, been thinking it the moment he saw Aziraphale. But this was different than thinking it. This was actually revealing to Aziraphale how Crowley saw him in his own head. These were all of Crowley’s feelings for Aziraphale, crumpled and condensed and crammed into a single word.

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows. “Angel? I like it.”

“I didn’t mean—just sort of slipped out—M’not trying to make it a pet name or anything,” Crowley stammered. “If you don’t like it… of course, you just said you liked it. What am I saying? I’m going to stop talking now.”

Aziraphale just gave him his sandwich, and Crowley ate it gratefully. They didn’t speak until they were both finished.

“Are you mad about it, though?” Aziraphale broke the silence.

“Oh, I’ll get over it,” Crowley said.

He smiled at the angel, and it was a relief how easy it was to do so.

***

It fact, things did turn out alright in the end, just like Anathema had said. On the first day of play practice, Mr. Liu surprised them by showing up at the start and asking who was in charge.

“She is,” Crowley said, pointing to Anathema.

“We are,” Anathema said. “Well, I handle all the logistics and set design, but this couldn’t have happened without Crowley.”

Mr. Liu nodded. “Thought about a director yet?”

Crowley exchanged a glance with Anathema. “Ah… well, no. Not really. We just sort of figured…” He trailed off, and Anathema didn’t seem keen on helping him trail back on.

“In that case, I think you should direct, Mr. Crowley,” Mr. Liu said.

“What?” Crowley said, very nearly spitting all over the drama teacher.

“You heard me. I was very impressed by your audition.”

“S-so you said.”

“And I thought you might put your skills to a… different use. Especially for this year’s play. And especially when you told me why you and Ms. Device here wanted to put it on.”

“But I wouldn’t know what I was doing!”

Mr. Liu crinkled his eyes. “I certainly don’t have the time to direct this play. Somebody has to. These other students know even less of what they’re doing. And Mr. Pulsifer’s just the sponsor.”

“Yeah, that’s right,” Anathema said. She turned to Crowley, all bright-eyed. “You’ll do it, won’t you?”

Crowley took a deep breath. He searched the theatre for Aziraphale and found him standing in the its right aisle, where he’d been talking to another member of the cast. They’d both stopped and were straining to listen to Anathema, Crowley and Mr. Liu, who were on stage. Aziraphale gave him a double thumbs up.

“Okay, I’ll do it,” Crowley said.

***

Crowley gradually got the hang of it. Eventually, practices went by fast, scenes without stopping every couple of lines. The cast wasn’t large by any means, but they were respectful. They’d taken to jumping when they heard the sound of Crowley’s raised voice. And Crowley liked that. It made him feel powerful.

Then, the first wave of college decisions came out, crashed into email inboxes and online portals. Undoubtedly, they caused some students banshee-like shrieks of glee and others woeful ones of distress. But not Crowley. He was accepted to the only university he had applied to, where many students from Eden matriculated, less than an hour’s drive away. It was expected, and it wouldn’t be a problem for… he wasn’t entirely sure there had been a problem in the first place. Aziraphale was staying, anyhow, for the hospital internship next year—wasn’t he? Why was Crowley worried? Again, it hadn’t been a problem in the first place. Aziraphale wasn’t his anyway, and he certainly wasn’t Crowley’s to lose.

A month flew by. On April Fool’s Day, Anathema came to practice bearing cupcakes. Crowley hung back at the end and watched with amusement as the tired cast gave her a standing ovation when she declared they could finally be eaten.

Once the others had filtered out the door, Anathema came up to Aziraphale and Crowley, who were talking absently about practice, and held out an empty box.

“Crowley, you haven’t had one, have you? I got just enough for everyone.”

Of course she did, Anathema with her plans and precision. And of course she’d notice it was he who had abstained. Crowley looked into the box. There was a lone cupcake sitting in a corner with smushed white frosting. He felt his stomach turn over. She had to bring cupcakes, didn’t she? He wondered if he could avoid being rude by taking it and chucking it in the trash as soon as she left. Anathema had obviously put a lot of thought into the cupcakes. He really didn’t want to seem rude.

Aziraphale saved him. “I’ll hold onto it for you, Crowley.”

He lifted the cupcake out of its box delicately and cradled it between those elegant fingers. That seemed to satisfy Anathema. She left with Newt’s arm around her shoulder and a hurried “Good night!” to the two of them.

“Please—just throw it away.”

Aziraphale rushed to do as he asked, but Crowley was already gagging. “Are you alright, my dear?”

Crowley heaved a breath. Shut his eyes. “Fine.”

“Alright, it’s gone.”

Crowley looked; Aziraphale was dusting his hands off.

“Do you want to tell me what’s the matter?”

Crowley shook his head. “Not now. Let’s get you home, angel.”

“You worry me, Crowley,” the angel said once they were in the Bentley.

“It really is fine,” Crowley sighed.

“I hope you won’t be offended by my asking if you’ve had any eating disorders in the past—”

“No, I don’t have a goddamn  _ eating _ disorder.”

“Alright. Alright.” Aziraphale crossed his arms and huffed. “I’m just worried. That’s all.”

“You don’t have to be.” Crowley wanted to tell Aziraphale that he wasn’t helping, the way he kept bringing it up. Crowley could still see the cupcake in his mind, smell the sickly sweet taste of its icing, feel the way it clung to his tongue. He stifled a gag.

Aziraphale cracked his window open.

“Thanks,” Crowley said.

The angel continued to stare at him in concern until they reached his house.

***

After dropping Aziraphale off, Crowley went up to the bluff where they’d eaten ice cream. Put all the windows down, stretched his hand out to feel the spring air. Up here, he always felt like he could touch the clouds. He felt like he could touch anything, do anything he wanted. With all of Eden spread out before him, Crowley was suddenly struck by how incredibly thankful he was for this place—and how beautiful it was. He took a few deep breaths. He felt better.

His dad called him.

“Hey champ. You headed home?”

Crowley smiled despite himself. Dad used to call him that all the time, but that was before… all the drinking, before they’d moved to Eden and Crowley started telling him he hated that nickname. He was glad for it now.

“Yeah, I was just…” Dusk was falling. He squinted, and the lights of Eden blurred. Opened his eyes, and they were crystal sharp again. “Do you ever miss her? Do you ever wish you could do something, anything, just so it wouldn’t have happened, and we’d be… normal again?”

A heavy crackling from the other end. “I miss not having her. Or something like her.” He didn’t say,  _ a mother for you, _ but they were both thinking it, Crowley knew.

“Look, don’t think about that,” his dad said. “I thought you should know, er—I wanted to wait until you got home, to tell you, but since I have you on the line now… I have an interview, tomorrow. For a job.”

“Really? That’s great. That’s wonderful, Dad. I...” Crowley laughed nervously, said at a whisper, “I’m proud of you.”

“Damn right. You don’t have to work weekends at that coffee place anymore. Horrible thing, coffee is.”

“S’not so bad. I’ll stay there for a bit longer. Until you’re settled in.”

“Right. Yeah. It’s just an interview.”

“But it’s an interview,” Crowley said hopefully.

“It’s an interview!” A sharp exhale of breath from the other end.

Crowley squinted down at Eden again. If he just barely closed his eyes, the lights of the city melded into different colors, a rainbow, like technicolor babble. Or maybe they split, refracted, whatever it was that light did. “I, er… I’ll come home now.”

“Alright. See you soon. Bye.”

“Bye.”

By the time Crowley got home, his dad was asleep already on the sofa, telly blaring away. He still did that most nights; he couldn’t sleep well in his own bed. Crowley checked the wastebin and saw that there were only two empty beer bottles in it.

He opened his phone, meaning to call Aziraphale and maybe apologize for the way he acted tonight, but he was distracted by an email from Mr. Liu. “Check this out…” the subject line read. The body was a simple line: “Anthony, I think you might be interested in this.”

Crowley read that line over and over. It sounded so ominous. Dramatic. Then again, that was what you’d expect from a drama teacher. Could it be a joke? He’d believed Mr. Liu when he said he was impressed, but Crowley didn’t think he was this impressed. There was only one way to find out, he supposed. Fingers sweating, he pressed the link.

***

That weekend, Aziraphale came in while Crowley was working. The angel visited the coffee shop on most weekends, just to sit in a corner and study after he’d ordered a black coffee with free refills. Crowley was elated to see him—that didn’t need saying. According to Aziraphale, the coffee shop was a ‘short walk’ from his house. As far as Crowley was concerned, it was a rather long walk, but he wasn’t going to complain if the angel was making it to keep him company.

He was also happy to watch Aziraphale down cup after cup of too-sweet coffee, mentally keeping track of Aziraphale’s record. Coffee seemed not to have an effect on Aziraphale at all, not even with the countless sugar packets he dumped into his cups. He could sit there for hours, sipping at his coffee, while Crowley took orders and made drinks, and not move a muscle. Didn’t even jiggle a leg.

On his breaks, Crowley would sit with the angel, while the girl he usually worked weekends with complained about him slacking off. Her name was Tara, and Crowley’s bickering with her made Aziraphale snicker so he didn’t mind it.

“You only get fifteen minutes,” she drawled today when he slipped out from behind the counter and walked over to Aziraphale.

“Yeah, I’ll make sure to take a fifteen-minute break when you stop calling  _ Robbie darling _ after fifteen minutes.” He could feel her glare in the back of his head. “Fifteen minutes, my arse.”

“My dear.” Aziraphale looked up at him, and Crowley’s heart seized up. He was by the window where he normally sat, and when the light filtered in and struck his eyes the right way, it turned them into opals. “You won’t make any friends by being so hostile.”

“Who says I’m trying to make friends?” Crowley slid into the chair opposite Aziraphale, rested his head on steepled fingers.

Aziraphale tutted.

“What’re you working on?”

“Just reading the chapter for AP Bio. I can never get over how fascinating these hybrid crosses are.”

“You’re such a nerd.”

“Really, we’re still being taught about discoveries a monk made in the nineteenth century with his little gardening plot and a few pea plants. Makes you wonder just how brilliant Mendel really was, what he could do today. Also that the most important discoveries are often just… there, waiting for someone with sharp enough eyes to realize them.”

“Makes you wonder how fucking bored he was being a monk that he had to resort to counting peas.”

Aziraphale laughed, bright and ringing. “They named the cell after a monk’s living quarters in a monastery, did you know that?”

“Who knew that monks and inmates had so much in common?”

Aziraphale looked pensive. “I wanted to be a monk when I was young.”

“What? No way. You’re kidding, angel.”

“No, really. I wanted to move to Tibet and be a monk. I thought it would be a peaceful life.”

“Yeah. Well, that’s better, at least, than being a Christian monk. Do they still have those? Anyhow, Tibetan monks are badasses. Why’d you change your mind?”

Aziraphale downed the rest of his coffee, wiggled his empty cup. “Wasn’t willing to give up a life of comfort.”

“Even to learn martial arts and be one with nature?”

“Even that. Good food and wine, can’t live without those.”

“Now that’s the most sixty-year-old thing I’ve ever heard you say.”

“Out of all the things I’ve said that sound like they should’ve come out of the mouth of an old man,  _ that’s  _ the one you pick?”

“At least you’re self-aware,” Crowley grumbled. “S’why I love you.”

He covered his mouth as soon as he said that in an attempt to shove the words back in. He failed, of course, because sound travels at about 343 meters per second through air (he learned that from Aziraphale last week). He could only watch with horror as Aziraphale’s reaction played out on his face.

The angel did nothing for a few airless seconds, then gave Crowley a small, indulgent grin.

“I didn’t mean that!” Crowley said hurriedly. “Just sorta slipped out, y’know. Just sorta the thing people say. Don’t think anything of it, Aziraphale. Please. M’running on three hours of sleep and two shots of espresso right now.”

The last part was true. As for the rest, a small but very fervent part of Crowley wished Aziraphale would say the words back. Or at least say something that would reject them. Then Crowley would be able to stop hoping.

“My dear, you shouldn’t wear yourself out like that. It’s worse for your body than you can imagine.” The angel leaned forward, and Crowley was certain he forgot how to breathe. “Why did you sleep so little?”

“Calculus,” Crowley answered truthfully.

“You should have asked me for help.”

“Not at three in the morning!”

“No, perhaps not. But I would have helped if I’d heard my phone ring.”

Crowley grunted.

“I have my calculus book here—”

“Nah, s’not in the book. It’s a project. We’re supposed to model the movement of this cat using derivatives or something. No one in that class knows what the hell they’re doing. I don’t even know what fucking a derivative is, Aziraphale.”

“Oh my.” The angel’s eyes grew wide as dinner platters. “How have you managed to keep a B in that class?”

Crowley shrugged. “A benevolent god who only pays attention to me sometimes?”

“Perhaps we should start with derivatives. Do you know how to take one?”

“Take what?”

“A derivative.”

“Yeah… I think so.”

“Explain the power rule to me, then.”

“The what?”

Aziraphale hummed patiently. “Let’s try something less conceptual. Can you tell me what the derivative of x-squared is?”

Crowley scrunched up his face. “Two x?”

“Correct. Do you know why?”

“No fucking clue.”

“Try.”

“Because I saw Mr. Pulsifer write it so many times that I had to memorize it.”

Aziraphale laughed and shook his head. “Do you understand the limit definition of a derivative?”

“The what now?”

“It looks like we have to start from the very beginning.”

“A very good place to start,” Crowley added.

“You know I hate that musical, my dear.”

From the counter Tara called, “It’s been fifteen, you bastard!”

“I’m learning about derivatives,” Crowley shouted back. “D’you know what a fucking derivative is?”

Tara returned to glaring in silence.

“Didn’t think so,” Crowley muttered, turning back to Aziraphale. “You were saying?”

Aziraphale had to purse his lips to hide his smirk.

***

Play practice the next week was dreadful. The actors had mostly learnt their lines, and now there was “lighting and shit,” as Crowley called it, to do. ‘Shit’ turned out to be a lot. Blocking, logistics, et cetera, it was all a big mess. Crowley relied on Aziraphale and Anathema mostly to get through it all. He found he couldn’t see a finished version of the show in his mind, which proved problematic when you were trying to direct, to tell actors where to go. He took advice and suggestions for most decisions from the cast, and by the end of the week, Crowley was drained and discouraged. And looking forward to a weekend with Aziraphale.

Only, the angel said to him on the ride home, “I’m afraid I won’t be present next week.”

The Bentley lurched. “At… practice?”

“At all,” said the angel, who couldn’t look more apologetic. “I’m going to visit my father. My flight leaves tomorrow morning.”

“Oh.” Crowley remembered that Philomena was finalizing a divorce with a wealthy businessman who had been gone on… well, business all the time. (“Remember? I said I was rubbish at relationships.”) Aziraphale had mentioned he barely knew what the man looked like.

“Not him,” the angel said, practically reading his mind. “He’s a stepfather. My mother and my biological father have been separated since I was five. She’s gotten married three times since him.” Aziraphale shook his head, a bit incredulous. “My father’s a bit of a knob, but he’s the kindest man you will ever meet. You’d enjoy him, Crowley. He’s wickedly funny.”

“Why’s he a knob?” was the only thing Crowley could hold onto, apparently.

“He works at a candy store,” Aziraphale said. “Before that, it was a canning factory. And before that, he was a fisherman. He’s also done a fair amount of traveling. One might say he’s rather… bohemian?”

“The farthest from you, it seems,” Crowley mused.

Aziraphale thinned his lips. “I’m not sure… definitely farther from Mother than from me.”

Crowley digested this new information. “So you’ll be gone the whole of next week.”

“Yes.”

“Leaving tomorrow.”

“Yes, Crowley. I’m sorry for not telling you sooner. I could never find an appropriate time to bring it up.”

“Nah, s’fine.”

Aziraphale traced an unseen object in the window. “How is your father doing?”

Crowley almost missed a turn in the road. Dad was going through a relapse; talk of  _ her  _ had caused it. He was mentioning her more and more now, the way she cooked pasta—traditionally Italian—the gestures she used to make—ruffling Crowley’s hair—he’d say something like, remember how we used to do this, she used to do that, you used to love this? Crowley didn’t remember, didn’t want to remember, and he tried telling Dad that, and then Dad would slump and drink. His son refusing to steep in joyful secondhand memories of her made it almost like losing her a second time. Maybe Crowley was being selfish, but all those memories tasted of arsenic. He couldn’t get the taste off his tongue when he thought of her.

“He’s fine,” Crowley said. But he had waited too long. Raised Aziraphale’s suspicions.

“Are you sure, Crowley?” Crowley stayed silent. Aziraphale sighed. “I wish you would talk to me.”

“I don’t want to talk right now.”

Aziraphale tutted. “It’s just, that day in the hardware store…”

“I  _ said,  _ I don’t want to talk about it.”

Crowley watched his knuckles turn whiter and whiter on the wheel. Why was Aziraphale being so pushy? Why did Aziraphale have to be gone during the most harrowing week of play practice? Why did he have to leave Crowley?

A small, irrational part of him whispered that he would be nothing without Aziraphale, and the angel would be just as much of an angel had he never met Crowley. Angels were angels. Unreachable. You tried to touch them, and they allowed you to try, but if you came too close you would burn. You’d find they didn’t care nearly as much for you as you did for them, because how could they? You were mortal. A mere mortal who’d foolishly given an angel your heart. And a small part of Crowley resented Aziraphale for that.

“Are you eating alright?” Aziraphale said.

Crowley clenched his jaw tight. Tighter. “Fine,” he gritted out. He thought of the cupcake again, and his stomach lurched.

“I won’t be at lunch, of course. You won’t have anything to eat.”

It was true. Crowley realized he hadn’t thought about that, then immediately felt guilty that he was taking the sandwiches for granted.

“I’ll be fine.”

“Stop saying that!” Aziraphale snapped, finally.

Suddenly, a fire burst to life in Crowley’s gut. “What do you want from me, then?”

“I want you to let me help you.”

Crowley felt his lips curl into a snarl. Didn’t he know how that made him feel? Being helped all the time, always a charity case? It was like he was worthless. Or that he only had worth because Aziraphale gave it to him, which was worse. They would never be equals; Aziraphale, perfect Aziraphale, who had everything figured out, would always talk down to him, even subconsciously, even though Crowley was taller. There would always have that angle to them. But the worst thing was, Crowley  _ liked  _ it. He would always go back crawling to Aziraphale’s feet, so long as the angel was there. In this moment, though, he was angry at himself for liking it.

“You can’t fix me, angel,” he hissed, laughed. Maniac. He was a maniac. “You can’t help me, and you can’t fix me. So  _ stop trying.” _

“I’m not—I am not… oh, you’re insufferable, Crowley. I’m not trying to fix anything!”

“What do you call this, then?”

“I’m concerned. I’m worried. I’m trying to help. As a friend.”

“I don’t need help.”

“I think you’ll find that if you tell me, then you’ll feel better—”

“You’re not my goddamn shrink!”

Aziraphale was silent. He stared out the window for the rest of the drive. When Crowley pulled into his driveway, he got out without a word. Crowley’s heart throbbed after him.  _ Say something! Don’t let him walk away. _

The angel didn’t close the door. He stuck his head back into the car, his eyes hard as gemstones, level with Crowley’s. Crowley’s breath caught in his throat.

“I went to a psychiatrist when Mother and Father were divorced,” Aziraphale said. “For the longest time, I felt like I had been torn in two. One part of me still holding Mother’s hand. The other stuck to Father. I didn’t know how I could be whole again. I wanted… I don’t know, for something to happen, so one half of me would be pulled so strongly that it would join the other half again. I didn’t care with who. I thought maybe Mother would marry someone like Father and we could be a family again, but I always felt a little wrong thinking that. Eventually, I was just used to it. Eventually, it was just easier. To exist like that. Crowley, there is no fixing. There’s just dealing.”

A long time passed during which Aziraphale stood there, waiting for Crowley to say something, and Crowley could only stare at him, dumbfounded. Eventually, Aziraphale just gave a little sigh and walked to his house, hands in pockets. He didn’t even look back.

***

For a week, Crowley dreamed of his mother. She was rolling out tagliatelle. She was daisy-chaining dandelions. She was sliding something that smelled warm and sleepy and aromatic out of the oven. Her mitts were mint green.

She was laughing. She was sobbing.

In one dream, she was lying listless on Dad’s bed in the house they lived in now. Crowley approached her through a fog. She stared at him, her eyes black and vacant. He called out to her, but it was like speaking underwater. She just stared at him. Stared through him.

Then, she was suddenly upright, and they were in the kitchen, and he was still moving through water. Her hand raised like a monolith, larger than life, her curses came out in speech bubbles, along with accusations that he was an intruder, that he had replaced Anthony, that he was somehow not her son.  _ You’re not him, where’s my boy, where the fuck he, what have you done with my son? _

He woke.

He always woke from those dreams at dawn. He’d go back to sleep, and their effects would be mostly gone by day. What did it matter that he stained his pillowcase with hot tears before the sun rose? In the morning, his mother was just a shadow. He would never see her again.

But she was still here, Crowley realized. He and Dad had moved to Eden, but she’d never left. You couldn’t catch a shadow, but you could sense its presence. It could still haunt you.

Without Aziraphale, Crowley grew more and more haunted. It was a simple play of light and darkness. When one was gone, the other superseded.

***

“Mum’s sick,” Dad had explained after the move. “I’m not going to tell you she’s going to get better, Anthony. I don’t want to lie to you. I’m sorry, but we won’t see her again. I promise I’m going to do better for us, Anthony. You’re safe here, now. We’re never going to see her again, not unless you want to, and I’m going to do for you what my old man never did for me. I promise. Swear it on my heart. Alright, Anthony?”

Mum was sick in the same way Ms. Nutter was sick. They both blew themselves up. Agnes with explosives on Christmas Day. A firework. Crowley’s mother with delusions baked into a soggy white cupcake.

***

Aziraphale returned Friday night.

At midnight, Crowley woke from a bad dream to find that the angel had called him. He dialed back and shivered with warmth when Aziraphale’s voice rang through, loud and clear.

“Oh! Crowley.”

“H-how was your trip, angel?”

“It was lovely. Do you want to hear—”

“Of course.”

Crowley lay on his back and listened to the angel talk. He itched to see Aziraphale’s expressions, little mannerisms, the twist of his mouth. He could imagine them well enough, but he wanted… he really wanted—

“Angel,” he interrupted. “Can I… come over?”

Silence from the other end. Then, eventually, “Well… er. Yes. Of course.”

Crowley couldn’t explain it. He grabbed a bottle of whiskey from the pantry, got into the Bentley, and drove. He was properly drunk by the time he reached Aziraphale's.

Aziraphale answered the door in his pajamas. Lovely white cotton pajamas. Crowley stumbled over the threshold, clenched a fistful of cotton sleep-shirt, regained his balance, then released Aziraphale reluctantly.

“Hell… hello.”

Aziraphale rubbed a hand over his face, trying to wipe away his expression of horror, but to no avail.

“My God. Crowley.”

“I sssaid hello, Aziraphale,” Crowley said. “Aren’t you going to say it back?”

He thought it was quite funny, but the glare Aziraphale gave him could cut marble. The angel put a firm hand on his arm and guided him up the stairs.

“We’d better get some water in you,” Aziraphale muttered. “Here, sit down.”

The angel was leading him to a bed—Aziraphale’s bed, he realized frantically—so Crowley decided the floor was a good as place as any to stay for the night. He sprawled out on the carpet—and even managed to drag Aziraphale down with him. The angel landed with a disgruntled “humph!”

“Where’s Ph-Phil…” Crowley frowned. Tried again, “Philo—lom—where’s your mother?”

Aziraphale sighed. “Mother’s flown out for a charity event.”

“Ah, so it’s just us two.”

“Just us.”

Crowley hummed. Aziraphale disentangled himself. Rose.

“I’ll get you a glass of water.”

Crowley bobbed his head. The angel disappeared—and remained disappeared for the longest time. Just when Crowley had made up his mind to go search for him, Aziraphale returned.

“You were gone for ssso long, angel. Eternities and eternities.”

“It was one minute, Crowley.”

“Ngh.”

“Drink.”

Crowley obeyed. His hand wasn’t so steady, though, and most of the water ended up on the front of his shirt. Aziraphale steadied the glass for him, and suddenly he was holding the angel’s hand.

“Aziraphale…”

He was so close. Blue eyes. Taut lips, twisted in disapproval.

“Crowley, what’s wrong?”

Crowley struggled to frown. “Whaddya mean, what’s wrong?”

“You’re not usually like this, Crowley.”

“Hm?” Aziraphale pushed the glass up to his lips again. Crowley took a small sip. “Not usually drunk, you mean? Yeah, that’s my dad. Usually.”

“Crowley.”

“What? Sss’fun.”

“It’s not.”

Crowley stuck his tongue out. “Is too. You know, angel. You do it plenty often.”

“Not like this,” Aziraphale said, stilted, posture entirely too straight. “And don’t call me that.”

“That,” Crowley said, and burst out laughing.

“You know what I mean.”

“I was worried you’d leave forever.”

There, he’d said it. Ripped right out from the bottom of his stomach. The source of all the nightmares of the past week.

“I was worried you’d leave me forever, and I didn’t know how to tell you. It’s easier to talk when you’re drunk.”

“Crowley… why?” Aziraphale said softly.

_ Because everyone leaves,  _ Crowley wanted to say, but his mouth felt too fuzzy and wouldn’t cooperate.  _ Dad’s been trying to leave for years. Agnes left. My mother… No one stays—for me. With me. _

“Why would you think that?” Aziraphale said.

Blue eyes. Taut lips.

_ Because I’m afraid of losing you. _

“Crowley?”

He didn’t answer. Couldn’t answer. Blue eyes.

_ Because history has shown me I lose everyone I love. _

“Why—”

Crowley leaned over and kissed him. It was a sloppy kiss, probably tasted of whiskey and bad breath. It was a clack of teeth and a slip of tongue. It was Aziraphale’s lips growing even tighter. It was Aziraphale planting two hands on his chest and pushing him away.

The water glass fell to the carpet. Leaked out a slow puddle.

Aziraphale wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Crowley scrabbled at his sunglasses, trying to take them off.

“Angel—”

“I _ said  _ don’t call me that!” Aziraphale heaved two great breaths, then looked away from him. Quieted. “I think you should leave, Crowley.”

“Huh?”

“You heard me. Please, go. I’m sorry.”

“N-no, I’m ss-sorry. I’ll make it up to you. Angel—”

“Please don’t call me that. Not like this.”

Somehow, he made it back downstairs and out the front door. He didn’t remember getting into the Bentley or starting the engine, but somehow he was turning out of Aziraphale’s neighborhood. With his blinker on. Crowley never used the blinker.

He would go to the bluff, he decided. Just go there and sit and think about how stupid he was. He was really so stupid. Stupid to let his feelings control him. It had always been too risky to act on them, and Crowley didn’t take risks. He didn’t take risks, and he didn’t get drunk. What was happening to him? He was turning into Dad. He was going to lose his best friend.

Somehow, he was driving down a road he didn’t recognize. The night sky was full of stars, and it was quite beautiful. A pair of headlights bobbing closer from around the turn up ahead—

Fuck.

Somehow, the lights were too close, and there was no time to correct—

Crowley didn’t even feel the impact.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning.  
Updates.  
Will.  
Be.  
Very.  
Slow.  
SLOOooooooOOOOwwWwWwWWW.  
I repeat.  
slooooooooow.  
slow.  
slo


End file.
